


The Prize

by Trillsabells



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Death, Destruction, Disease, Fire, M/M, Plane Crashes, Post Apocalyptic AU, Serious Consent Issues, Slavery, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-20
Updated: 2012-02-04
Packaged: 2017-10-26 08:12:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 17
Words: 101,022
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/280762
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Trillsabells/pseuds/Trillsabells
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On 29 January 2010 an unknown Event wiped out 98% of the population. This is the story of the survivors, four months on. Based on this prompt <a href="http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/4777.html?thread=13079721#t13079721">here</a></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

They say it came in a wave of gold light. They say that anyone touched by the light was immediately turned to dust. They say that plants and animals were vaporised where they stood. They say that every plane of glass in the world shattered in an instant. They say that as one, the people screamed.

No one really knows, because no one who saw survived. All they know is that ninety-eight percent of the world’s population was wiped out in that second of light.

And after that, everything went to hell.

 

 

It shouldn’t have been surprising to find someone amongst the dust.

Although London tended to resemble a ghost town these days there were still plenty of people left in the city. Scavengers, scroungers, lunatics. After the Event, the chaos, the riots, the bombings, the fires, the infections and finally the spring floods most of the remaining population had headed for the countryside. But still some remained, kept there by some mawkish sentimental attachment. It was insane, the urban life was unsustainable, but still they stayed, unable or unwilling to abandon the capital.

Sherlock had certain contacts amongst the survivors. He helped them out with fresher food than they could find - without telling them where he got it from of course - and they kept him informed as to what was happening in the complex new society that had built up in the remains of the metropolis.

He was well aware that the west end was a very popular area for the gangs. It was considered lucky because of the large number of people who had survived by virtue of being in darkened theatres at the time of the Event. So he shouldn’t have been surprised to find the man holding the gun in the ruins of the old office. But he was.

It wasn’t the gun that surprised him. There were lots of guns in London these days, desperation having turned people violent and grasping for the biggest weapon they could find. Following decades of anti-weapon licensing guns were now enjoying a heyday again, and after the short-lived martial law there had been plenty to be had – plucked off the bodies of dead soldiers. Although admittedly they were being seen less and less as the ammo ran out. These days they were most likely to be found empty and in the hands of kids who didn’t even know which way up to hold them.

This gun was an army issue Sig Sauer P226. It was fully loaded. It was also being held - the right way up - in a steady grip that told Sherlock the holder knew exactly how to use it, and would do so if Sherlock took another step forward.

As a precaution Sherlock did not take another step forward.

They were stood in what had been an office of the local borough council, facing each other from either end of a long line of desks. The building didn’t look like it had been entered since the early days after the Event. The reception area had been a wreck; a car had crashed through the front door, most of the furniture had been missing and someone had sprayed the words ‘The eNd is Ni’ on the wall in pink paint, although that was hardly unique to this building. The same words, occasionally spelt correctly, were spray painted in different colours all over the city. Sherlock had often wondered why people were so unoriginal with these things.

However this office, further into the building, still looked as untouched as if the Event had happened only the day before. Paper swayed gently in the breeze from the empty window frames, slightly mouldering coats stuck firmly to their racks and on a desk halfway between Sherlock and the other man a phone receiver lay off the hook, a slight covering of dust the only remains of the hand that had held it.

It was obvious what the man was doing here, one look at the half open khaki duffle bag at his feet told Sherlock that. It was also obvious exactly what the man was which was a far more intriguing and, if he was honest, surprising prospect. He hadn’t realised there were any of them still about. He had to do something.

“Weavers Fields or Barbican?” he asked mildly.

The man’s eyes widened in alarm. No, not just alarm, there was something else there, something much more interesting. Anger. Absolute outrage.

There was a click as the man released the safety of the handgun.

“Who the hell are you? And how do you know about Barbican? Have you been following me?”

Sherlock frowned briefly. “Why would I do that?”

It was in fact the most incredible piece of luck. He almost hadn’t come. This was supposed to be one of the boring fact finding or reconnaissance trips ordered by Mycroft that Sherlock was required to undertake from time to time in order to allow his more fun forages out into the city the rest of the time. But halfway down Queenstown Road he had remembered one of the cases he had been working on shortly before the Event; the murder of a woman that he had been convinced had been organised by the husband despite a tight alibi. In a flash it had come to him how he could put a hole in that alibi and he had practically run all the way to the West End.

And now there was this, standing between him and the evidence he had been after. Ragged, thin, dirty, unshaven and quite frankly stinking, the man in front of him still managed to hold himself with a stiff upright bearing that betrayed his past life. The confusion was obvious but the gun didn’t veer an inch away from the direction of Sherlock’s chest.

Sherlock kept his hands down but in clear sight, his eyes low but fixed on the other man’s, and his face carefully blank. It was almost like approaching a dangerous animal although Sherlock was certain he was dealing with an entirely different type of creature.

“Then what the hell are you doing here?”

“I need that phone,” Sherlock replied instantly. He gestured towards the desk behind the man with a nod of his head. “The landline. Behind you.”

Sherlock felt oddly pleased by the slideshow of emotions this created across the man’s face. First surprise accompanied by a clearly automatic flick of the eyes towards the phone. Then suspicion as his head snapped back towards Sherlock, eyes narrowing as if expecting all talk of phones to be a trick. Annoyance, probably at falling for such a trick, followed but was quickly replaced by confusion and then disbelief as it no doubt dawned across the man’s mind that he might actually want the phone.

Sherlock, for his part, remained entirely still throughout the display; making no threatening movements but at the same time not backing down.

Time passed silently save for the sound of their breathing in the dust filled room.

Finally the man started to move. Sherlock tried very hard not to let his face light up. For a moment he had feared the man would argue. Obviously the man had decided he would leave once he got what he had come for and wanted to speed up his departure. A quite correct conclusion, Sherlock couldn’t help mentally adding. If not an entirely comprehensive one.

The man took a few steps sideways then backwards until he was beside the desk. He pulled the cord out of the back of the phone then picked it up and moved forward again. Reaching out his arm he offered the phone to Sherlock. Throughout the entire manoeuvre his eyes, and his gun, remained perfectly fixed on Sherlock.

Sherlock moved forward slowly and steadily, maintaining eye contact. He stopped far enough away that he had to lean forward slightly when he reached for the phone. The man pressed it into his hand then quickly snatched his own hand back but not before Sherlock had had an opportunity to surreptitiously double check the man’s fingertips.

He had been right. Amazing. Not at him being right, obviously, that was practically a given. No, the amazing thing, the thing that had surprised Sherlock as soon as he had laid eyes on the man, was this; there was a doctor in London. An army doctor. And if Sherlock was right, and he almost always was, he was a good one.

Excellent.

Now to get him home.

As soon as he had his hands on the phone he knew it wasn’t what he was looking for.

“Ah, no, you see? Although the message would have been only retrievable through this phone it doesn’t actually have a memory to store it on.” He looked at the wire the doctor had pulled out the back and started to follow it with his eyes. “There will be a hard drive somewhere with it on. Most likely upstairs.”

He tried to hand the phone back but the doctor took a step back. He dropped it on the nearby desk, the one with the off the hook handset, and slid it towards the doctor instead.

“We might as well take it with us anyway, it will be good for components. Also you really don’t want to take water from that cooler; it’s been in direct sunlight for four months. You’d be better off getting some from their stock of cooler bottles. They’re most likely kept in the canteen at the end of the corridor. Not that you’ll need it anyway, we have a purification system. I’ll pop upstairs and get this server, shouldn’t be too hard to find, and then we’ll go. Need to stop off at the local park first though, you don’t mind do you?”

“No,” the doctor said firmly.

“I didn’t think you would. It won’t take long anyway. We’ll soon have you back to the Enclave in time for dinner. Nice hot meal? I expect it’s been a while. So if you just put the phone in your bag-“

“I said no,” the doctor said, cutting across him in an almost deathly tone which told Sherlock very succinctly that the speaker’s finger would most definitely pull that trigger if he said another word.

As a precaution he stopped talking.

“I’m not…” the doctor continued. “No. Not with you. This Enclave place… I won’t…”

Despite the floundering the doctor maintained his certain tone. Sherlock could tell the doctor hadn’t spent much time with other people for at least three weeks. He suspected the trouble with words was lack of practice. That was fine with him. In fact it might be nice to have someone around who didn’t talk back too much. Like the skull. He missed the skull sometimes.

“I’m not going anywhere with you,” the doctor finally managed.

He gave Sherlock a firm look that Sherlock inferred was meant to assert that this was an undeniable statement. Sherlock didn’t doubt it. Or at least didn’t doubt that was what the doctor thought it was. Sherlock, however, knew the man was wrong, but then not everyone was as smart as he was.

There was a pause which Sherlock took as permission to speak.

“You’re not?” he said.

The tentativeness he forced into his voice would have surprised Lestrade who had seen him argue with armed men many times before. But then there were people with guns and then there people with guns who you wanted to come with you.

“No!” The man sounded surprised that Sherlock wasn’t getting it. “Home cooked meal, long hot bath, nice warm bed. Not going to work on me. I mean I’m… I’m nearly flattered. You lot normally go for people a bit younger but… no. Just… no.”

Sherlock let out a sigh as realisation dawned. “You think I’m a collector.”

Which was ridiculous because the man was right; he wasn’t exactly collection material. The men who preyed on the London survivors usually went for those who were young, pretty and not doing very well at taking care of themselves.

Sherlock had heard about the invitations, how the chosen would be practically drooling at the descriptions of the large, clean, heated house the collector had commandeered out in the country and the abundance of food they would be offered. After that it took almost nothing to persuade the victim into a waiting vehicle and they would be swept out of the city before they knew it. And that was that. From that point on they were a possession of the collector. They would get to see that large clean house and be given some of that abundance of food and then they would be told, in no uncertain terms, what they had to do to earn it.

Sherlock had met a girl who had escaped a collection. He had seen for himself the chain marks, the bruises and the unmistakeable signs of rape. He had heard the stories about the others who had been forced to slave in mines and hellish factories. The girl had died from her injuries the next day. She had been thirteen years old.

Sherlock thought a collector would have to be insane to try and pick up the man in front of him. He was too self-sufficient, too hard-nailed, too armed to be easy prey. Sherlock was more insulted by the question against his intelligence than the inference he was a child-snatching monster.

“If I wanted to collect someone I certainly wouldn’t be likely to choose a person currently pointing a gun at me.”

“We’ve only just met,” the man was starting to sound a touch hysterical, “and you want me to go home with you but don’t want anything in return?”

Well certainly not anything he wouldn’t want to give once he knew the situation.

“Problem?”

The man gave a disbelieving huff. “We don’t know a thing about each other. I don’t know where this Enclave place is. I don’t even know your name.”

Sherlock fixed him with a piercing look. “I know you’re an army doctor and you were working at the Barbican distribution centre when the bombing happened. You’ve been in groups before but it’s never worked out, possibly because you’re ill, more likely because you suffer from violent nightmares. At the moment you’re on your own, trying to keep your profession a secret and doing your very best to isolate yourself. That’s enough to be going on, don’t you think?”

Leaving the man wide eyed and stunned, Sherlock turned on his heel and headed for the doorway, allowing his coat to billow behind him. Once there he turned again, said,

“The name’s Sherlock Holmes and I’ll be back in twelve minutes.”

Then with a wink he bounded out the door and up the nearby staircase, barely able to contain the grin on his face.

 

~

 

As he heard the footsteps of the curly haired stranger disappear up the stairs he desperately tried to rearrange his brain into something capable of processing what had just happened. Or even capable of any thought at all. At that moment all he had managed was, _My God!_

He tried again but was only able to get a variation on the same theme.

Eventually he managed to get past two word thoughts with the addition of, _He’s magnificent!_

Finally, _finally_ something clicked and he was able to correct himself. _No, he’s insane and it’s contagious._

Because how else could he explain the fact that a man who was so obviously a collector – smart clothes, clean face, well groomed, no signs of malnourishment – had just gone away but promised to be back in twelve minutes and he was still standing there. Not just standing there, frozen there like a rabbit in headlights, in exactly the same position he had been when Holmes had started that little diatribe of his life. Staring at the empty doorway, his gun pointed at nothing. He had gone mad. Sherlock Holmes was mad and he had found the whole thing… amazing. He was almost, almost, tempted to go with the man.

Which was bad, very, very bad and enough to snap him out of it.

He started moving quickly because in about ten minutes an utter nutcase was going to come back down those stairs and he needed to be out of there before those piercing eyes hit him again and he threw away all his sense.

Tucking the gun into his pocket he seized his bag, tugged it firmly shut then practically threw it onto his back. He pulled the hood of his faded hoodie over his head, deliberately ignored the phone that still sat on the desk and headed for the door.

He pieced his way carefully through reception trying to make as little noise as possible. The last thing he wanted was to get caught on the way out. Hanging back behind the rubble that had once been the entrance way he checked the street for dangers, particularly for Holmes’ backup because he must have backup, surely? No one stayed that fresh, that cool, that confident all on their own. He couldn’t see anyone but he couldn’t take any risks.

He slipped into the long evening shadows and kept a wary eye out as he headed away from the office as quickly as he could. He had to get away. He had to get to safety. He had to- dammit! After everything he had forgotten the water. After everything he had been through to find some place that still had the standalone water cooler bottles and he had just walked out without any.

It had been a _plan_. It had even been a good plan. West End, small businesses, get enough water to keep him going for just that little bit longer, that was all he had hoped for and then Sherlock Holmes had swept in and turned it all upside down. The arrogance of the man! He hadn’t so much been invited along as been expected to follow. He had been the one holding the gun for god’s sake! So why had Holmes been the calm controlled one. Too calm actually. His eyes had been sharp and focused, no desperation at all which was downright weird because everyone was desperate for _something_ these days. Even collectors were desperate to grab their prey and get out the city before they got stopped. All Holmes had seemed to want was… that phone. Why the hell did he want that phone? Mental, absolutely mental.

Why was he still thinking about it?

What was that movement?

Hardly breathing he ducked into an alleyway.

It was a couple of kids, primary school age and so thin it looked like a strong breeze would sweep them away. They didn’t appear to notice him and he stayed as still as a rock to make sure it kept that way. There was nothing he could do to help them. There was nothing he could do to help anyone.

Holmes’ words came back to him, ‘ _trying to keep your profession a secret_ ’. Holmes had got that one right. Got everything right actually. Pinned him right down to a tee. How had he known about the nightmares? How had he known about any of that? And much, much more importantly, why the hell did he care about any of that to find it out? Why was someone like Holmes interested in him? To have that much attention pressed onto him had been almost… flattering. Oh god, why had he actually told Holmes he was flattered? Huge mistake. Giant mistake. Moment of utter madness.

The children had passed so he pressed his head against the brickwork and let out a deep breath of exasperation.

That’s all it had been. A moment. He was just lonely, that was all. Thrown by the shock of someone actually wanting to look him straight in the eye instead of avoid it and hurry away. Well the moment had passed and he was walking away.

He started to pull himself out of the alleyway then retreated back into it quickly. Further down the road the two kids yelped in horror and fled down the nearest side street. A large black Land Rover cruised ominously down the road. He watched it carefully as it came to a stop in front of the office that still contained Sherlock Holmes. Five men, each looking more brutish than the last, piled out and headed into the building. He paused, heart thumping in his chest, knowing he should walk away but unable to tear his thoughts away from the man he had left behind. The man who could be in a lot of trouble.

He should… he had to… he needed… he…

…he was going to regret this. He knew it.

 

~

 

It didn’t exactly take all of his deductive abilities for Sherlock to know that that wasn’t his army doctor pounding up the stairs. Not unless the man had found himself a group of very burly friends in the last ten minutes.

Slipping the computer’s case back into place, he palmed his screwdriver before turning towards the uninvited guests.

There was no point in trying to hide. The computer had been tucked away in a cupboard right near the top of the stairs. It was only big enough for one person to stand in and even if he had time to close the door it had a window, which was, of course, now a big gaping hole.

It wasn’t long before the face of a man who looked like he would be confused by the statement ‘One plus one equals two’, popped his head around the doorway. Sherlock’s coat was grabbed and he was tugged out into the large open plan office that made up the bulk of the top floor.

There were five men, including the one who had grabbed him, all cleaner and better fed than the London scavengers. That as well as their calloused hands and bruised knuckles told Sherlock he was very unlucky indeed. These were muscle working for a collector.

He spared a thought for the army doctor downstairs, listening out for any sounds of struggle that might indicate he had been caught as well. A lack of gunshots surely indicated that the man had managed to hide himself away somewhere. Relieved he was able to turn his full attention on the shortest thug, no doubt the leader, who he was being pulled in front of.

“Nah,” said the man, shaking his head, “keep looking. Mike, go back to the car.”

Sherlock wondered if that meant he would be let go but it turned out to be too much to hope for as the grip on his arm didn’t let up.

The three other men split up. One, no doubt Mike, headed back down the stairs, another, a man with exceptionally long arms, started checking the other doors sporadically placed along the wall while the third, a man with spiky hair and uneven highlights, explored the main office, checking under the desks. He began to wonder who or what they were looking for when his attention was suddenly demanded by the leader of the group

“’Ello, pretty boy. What ‘chu doin’ ‘ere?”

Sherlock deigned to even offer that sloppy half question an eye roll.

The leader moved towards him, stopping a few paces away and craned his head upwards to meet Sherlock’s look of disdain.

“You ain’t been doin’ too well ‘ave ya? Look at ‘chu, all skin an’ bone.”

Sherlock sighed. “Does that actually work on anyone?”

His opinion of the intelligence of general population was plummeting as the thug spoke. Perhaps his boss was more subtly persuasive – he couldn’t see this guy collecting very many people if he was on his own.

“Now, now.” The man took another step towards him. “Don’t be rude. You’re talkin’ to the man who could take you away from all this. Nice place to stay, feed you up a bit.” He pinched Sherlock’s chin, raising his hand above his head in order to reach. “What ‘chu say?”

Sherlock smiled. “I wouldn’t have thought I was your type.”

“What ‘chu mean by that, pretty boy?”

No imagination for compliments this one. “I mean that you play around with the collection, like you’re supposed to, but you much prefer the burly type.” Sherlock flicked his eyes towards spiky hair who was currently examining the large empty window frames that ran along the side of the wall overlooking the street. “Like him.”

The leader and spiky hair looked at each other in mild astonishment. Sherlock felt the man behind him tense slightly and he glanced down to look at the hand gripping his arm.

“Ah no, I see,” Sherlock said. “You two aren’t sleeping together but you are both sleeping with this guy here.” He gestured backwards with his head. “I bet he told you both that you were the only person he had been close to since his wife died. Except his wife didn’t die, she left him long before the Event. No doubt because he had the same inability to commit to one person then as he does now. She must have been quite a large woman for you to have confused her old ring for yours. Although it doesn’t fit perfectly, does it? You could have cleaned it you know. If she had died still wearing the ring it would have been cleaned. It certainly wouldn’t still have the mark on it from when she threw it at you and chipped the wall.”

He had obviously hit a sore point there because before he could react the grip on his arm strengthened and it was wrenched painfully behind his back.

“You’re going to want to shut up right now,” was growled into his ear.

“Joe!” the leader called.

Any hope that it was a cry of restraint was dashed when the long limbed man reappeared and was told,

“We need your help in here to teach pretty boy a lesson.”

Oh excellent, thought Sherlock as the three men advanced on him and the grip behind him tightened even further. This was going to hurt.

The gunshot took everyone by surprise, especially Joe who didn’t appear to notice it for a few moments before he dropped like a sack of potatoes. Another shot and spiky hair was down. Feeling the grip on his arm loosen somewhat, probably due to shock, he leant back into it and spun the thug round until, with a twist, he broke free and threw the thug off him and into a desk, knocking it over with a crash. Readjusting his grip on the screwdriver, he swiped at the leader with it, catching him in the side. He turned towards the stairs as he heard the heavy footfalls of the fifth man, Mike, coming up them and was nearly caught from behind - the adulterer was back on his feet much quicker than Sherlock had anticipated. Ducking the first blow with ease he turned and struck his attacker in the stomach.

There was another gunshot which hit the wall and Mike retreated back down the stairs.

Sherlock aimed a punch to the head but was thrown off balance by a white searing pain through that shot through his knee as a well-aimed kick sent him tumbling him to the ground. Taking advantage of his new position, he threw himself at the other man’s legs and tackled him to the floor. Ignoring the shooting pain in his knee, he scrambled on top where a few well aimed blows with his fist stopped the man moving.

From the floor below there were more gunshots then the sound of footsteps ascending the stairs again.

Sherlock rolled off the now unconscious attacker and, unable to get up, spun on the ground until he faced the new threat. Unexpectedly the threat was a lot closer than he had predicted.

The leader stood in front of him, his hand pressed into his bleeding side and an angry look on his face. He opened his mouth to say something, some petty insult or threat no doubt, but was unable to make any sound other than a brief moan as something heavy was brought down on his head and he crumpled into an unattractive heap.

Sherlock had never been happier to see an ex-army doctor wielding a Sig P226 in his life.

“Why didn’t you shoot him?”

The doctor looked a touch irate at the greeting. “I just wasted six bullets because of you, I wasn’t going to waste another one.”

Sherlock glanced towards the windows and the building opposite where two of those bullets had originated from. “Good shots.”

That seemed to go down better. “They were, weren’t they?”

Sherlock looked back at the doctor to find him kneeling by the leader checking for a pulse.

“He’s still alive,” he said. “How about the one behind you?”

Sherlock reached around the check. “Just about.”

“Then we’d better get out of here before they wake up.” He tucked his gun into the back of his trousers then offered his arm to Sherlock. “Come on.”

Sherlock grabbed the proffered hand and began to use it to pull himself up when his knee gave a twinge of protest and he cried out in shock. In an instant the doctor was on the floor beside him, rolling up the trouser leg and gently examining the injury.

“Looks like a sprain to me.”

He looked around the room wildly then suddenly jumped to his feet. He yanked out the drawer of the nearest desk and started pulling items of stationary out, moving on to the next drawer - and then the next desk – when he failed to find what he was looking for immediately. Finally he laid hands on a stapler and a pair of scissors then, to Sherlock’s astonishment, started to take the shoes off the unconscious leader.

“What are you doing?” Sherlock finally asked after he moved on to removing the leader’s trousers.

“If you think I’m wasting my limited supply of clean bandages on you when all you need is support you’ve got another thing coming. Take off that guy’s shoes as well.”

Sherlock twisted, trying to move his knee as little as possible, and did as he was instructed. When he turned back the doctor was cutting the trousers into long strips. Sherlock offered him the shoes and with a brief, “Thanks,” the doctor took them and threw them out the window, followed by the leader’s shoes.

“Slow them down,” he muttered, lining up the strips of cloth and stapling them together.

He very carefully wrapped the makeshift bandage over the top of Sherlock’s trousers around the knee until it was firmly – but not tightly – bound. Standing up he offered Sherlock his arm again and this time was able to pull Sherlock firmly onto his feet.

“How does it feel?”

Cautiously Sherlock put some weight onto the leg. It hurt enough to be uncomfortable but didn’t feel like it was going to buckle. “It’ll do for now. I’m sure you can do better once we get to the Enclave.”

The little ‘huh’ this comment provoked told him there was still some doubt to their destination. Nevertheless the doctor pulled Sherlock’s arm around his neck and started to guide them in the direction of the stairs. Sherlock gripped his shoulder and steered them both towards the cupboard.

“What are you doing?”

“I told you. I need to get the hard drive.”

The doctor sighed, released him to limp into the cupboard then pulled the gun out again. Even though he was blocking the light by standing in the doorway Sherlock quite enjoyed the way this man he had met less than an hour ago took up guard while he worked. It didn’t take him long to remove the hard drive which he handed to the doctor with a,

“Where’s your bag?”

“Downstairs. Can we go now?”

Sherlock obligingly threw his arm around the doctor’s neck and allowed himself to be assisted down the stairs.

Fifteen minutes later the doctor had retrieved his duffle bag – and the desk phone which for some reason he had left in the office where Sherlock had found it – and they were back out in the street and on their way to the Enclave.

“No.”

“No?”

Sherlock frowned. He wasn’t still refusing to come, was he? After Sherlock had showed off his brilliance by telling him everything about himself? After he had just shot three people for Sherlock’s sake and taken the trousers off another? After he’d so very sweetly guarded Sherlock while he worked?

“Come on,” he tried again.

“No, it’ll be dark soon and you’ll never make it in your state. You need to rest your leg. It’s too far.”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. “You don’t even know where it is.”

The doctor gave him a steely look that Sherlock suspected a lot of difficult patients had received over the years.

“Is it further away than Baker Street tube station?”

Baker Street was in entirely the wrong direction, they wanted to go south not north. However the voice, on top of the look, brokered no argument and the doctor was indeed right; Baker Street was closer. Not that Sherlock’s leg was so bad he couldn’t have made it to the Enclave but the doctor seemed to be at least offering to spend more time with him which was strangely appealing.

Sherlock nodded and let the doctor take them to Baker Street.


	2. Chapter 2

Where the office had been frozen in the moment of the Event, Baker Street tube station bore all the scars of the months that had followed. As they made their way through the darkness their torch briefly highlighted the smashed up turnstiles, the graffitied war memorial and the government information posters that papered the walls, layered over each other as more instructions were given or the lower ones were ripped down in frustration.

When Holmes propped himself up against one poster telling locals where their nearest distribution centre was the irony wasn’t lost on the doctor. At least it wasn’t Barbican.

He ignored the narration dancing around at the back of his head asking if this really was a good idea and tugged at the chain around his neck. Pulling it off completely, he revealed his old ID tags as well as the collection of keys he kept there for safekeeping. He looked over at Holmes to check whether the other man had made any movement to read the information marked on the small circular discs but they didn’t seem to have caused any reaction. He sorted through the keys until he found the one that opened the ticket office and let them in.

The door was a little stiff – he hadn’t been there for a while. Last time he had he had been stopped before he even reached the bottom of the stairs by a gang of teenagers in ridiculous punk costumes claiming that the tunnels were their property. They were just kids playing at being bad and he had been sure he could have taken them down without breaking a sweat but instead he had turned tail and left them to it. Judging by the amount of undisturbed dust in the hall it seemed someone else hadn’t been so merciful.

Still, once Holmes had limped through the doorway, he took care to lock it very firmly behind them. Then he led the way through the office to the back room where their light wouldn’t be seen by anyone on the outside.

It was the small room where, once upon a time, the guards had taken their tea breaks. There was a tiny television, a ratty looking sofa and a small kitchen area with microwave, kettle and mini fridge which he knew from experience contained a half pint bottle of milk that had long since turned to cheese.

Three months ago he had been invited into this very room for a cup of tea and a long conversation with a guard who had worked at Baker Street for fifteen years. He had fallen asleep on the sofa and been woken by the sound of the guard shooting himself in the head with his Sig. All he had felt at the time was gratitude that the guard had gone into the entrance hall to do it so he could continue to use the back room without a large bloodstain to distract him.

As his guest dropped down heavily onto the sofa he started to set up camp. Reaching into his bag he pulled out the small camping stove he had – he preferred to say – ‘liberated’ from an outdoor supplies shop shortly after Barbican when he had resigned himself to what was coming. He was running out of gas and had so far been unable to find any more. The last few nights he had been using wood and a makeshift ‘hobo stove’ he had crafted out of a can. But he couldn’t use one of those inside, not if he didn’t want their place for the night completely filled with smoke.

Wait, did he just refer to it as _their_ place? The internal accusations of madness started to come back. He ignored them and got the stove going.

“Tea or coffee?” he asked Holmes, realising as he did that this was the first thing either of them had said to each other for at least an hour. “Bear in mind there’s no milk and I don’t trust the sugar.”

“Under those circumstances tea would be best.”

Personally he agreed, so he set some water to boil in a saucepan and went to the cupboard in the corner to fish out the tea bags, a plastic teaspoon and a mug for Holmes. He purposefully ignored the one the guard had used three months before and chose a red Arsenal one which he gave a quick wipe with a cloth. He pulled his own tin mug out of his bag and as soon as the water was boiled managed to make two serviceable mugs of tea. He handed one to Holmes who thanked him briefly before sipping quietly.

Together they sat in a silence that, while hardly tense, was certainly not companionable. He was more relieved than he cared to admit when Holmes broke it.

“A morgue, no one and I haven’t figured it out yet.”

Where had that come from? “What?”

“You have questions. Those are my answers to the usual ones.”

Oh of course. Anyone who spent any time with other survivors got asked the same three questions over and over. ‘Where were you?’, ‘Who did you lose?’ and ‘Why do you think it happened?’. He remembered the guard’s answer to the second question had been very long.

“I’ve never really liked those questions.”

Holmes didn’t say anything but his eyes were so focused on him he was almost afraid they would drill a hole in the back of his head.

“It’s not as if you need me to tell you mine,” he continued. “You know. You knew everything. You even knew about Barbican. How the hell did you know that?”

“I didn’t know,” said Holmes looking far too little fazed by the increasing agitation of the armed man in front of him. “I saw.”

“You saw all that?”

“Yes. It’s obvious really. Take for example your gun.”

He resisted the urge to twitch towards his gun. Holmes didn’t appear to notice, just steamed onwards at the speed of sound.

“Sig P226, standard British army issue. You could have picked it up from a dozen different places but the way you hold it, that says you have experience not only with guns but with this specific model in particular. That and the way you hold yourself as well as the chain for your ID tags which was visible above your collar says military.

“You have discolouration in the fingers on your left hand an early sign of Loreslepin poisoning. It won’t have been self-inflicted; you don’t have the facial scars indicative of CN41 so it wasn’t an overdose to stave that off and you’re not the sort of person to take medicine you didn’t need, especially not too much one go - your gun was fully loaded; you don’t waste important resources unnecessarily.”

By this point he was clenching his jaw to stop it from falling open in shock as his brain struggled to keep up with the rapid explanation.

“Only conclusion, you contracted it, like many others did, when the bombs went off at the Barbican and Weaver’s Fields distribution centre. However, unlike many other sufferers, you’re not only still alive but only just showing the first physical signs. That means you’re self-medicating and must have been since the very early signs. No one had heard of Loreslepin poisoning before the Event let CN41 loose which means you diagnosed yourself and worked out exactly what you needed based on only your own medical knowledge. Medical knowledge that detailed could only mean you’re a doctor. So army doctor.”

It was like he had been turned inside out and read through.

“It’s perfectly obvious you’re on your own; you only have enough supplies for one person and if there was a group you would have taken the entirety of the water cooler bottle instead of attempting to siphon off what you needed. You’re also hiding your profession. I would have heard about it if there was a doctor in London. Everyone would have heard about it. You would have patients flooding to you but you don’t, so no one knows. And then there’s your shoes.”

“My shoes?” he couldn’t stop himself from looking down at the perfectly ordinary army boots

“Evidence of pigeon guano on the bottom,” Holmes continued, indicating. “The whole city to choose from and last night you camped up somewhere where pigeons roost, no doubt very high up and open to the elements. No, you deliberately chose somewhere no one else would go which means you’re not just on your own you’re trying your hardest to stay that way.”

Perfectly ordinary army boots that said that much?

“But you knew about collectors which means you’ve been in groups before but it hasn’t worked out. If they’d chucked you out you would be looking for another group and you’re an army doctor, any group would be thrilled to have you. No, you left them which means you’ve decided it would be better off for everyone if you were on your own. Maybe you’re worried your illness would slow the group down. Maybe you’re afraid of what you’d do after a nightmare.”

He sucked in an unconscious breath. “How could you possibly know about the nightmares?”

“Shot in the dark,” Holmes said with a slight tilt to the head. “Good one though. The whole time we were talking you were forcing yourself to be calm; keeping tight control over yourself just in case you accidentally pulled the trigger. Naturally you would be most afraid of losing that control especially if losing that control put other people in danger. One incident wouldn’t be enough; it would have to be a constant threat to drive you away from everyone else. So something that happens regularly and outside of your control. Nightmares.

“See? Everything I said about you was obvious from what I could observe.”

There was a long pause during which the words trickled down between them like falling dust while John’s brain got back up to speed.

“That,” the words came almost involuntarily, “was amazing.”

It sounded ridiculous to his ears even as he said them and he didn’t blame the other man for looking so confused.

“It was?”

Holmes had worked all that out after a five minute conversation and, best yet, it all made perfect sense. The man was clearly insane, no doubt about that, but goodness he was clever.

“Of course it was,” he said feeling suddenly buoyed up by enthusiasm towards the genius in front of him. “Extraordinary, it was quite extraordinary.”

“That’s not what people normally say.”

“What do people normally say?”

“Piss off.”

He smiled which, strangely enough, hurt. Something else he was out of practice with. He tried to remember the last time he had smiled. It had been longer than four months. It was possibly even ten months, back when he had been in Afghanistan. However, if his smile was strained or weak, Holmes didn’t appear to notice as he gave a small smile in return.

“Did I get anything wrong?” Holmes asked after a short period in which they did nothing but drink their tea in silence.

The answer was on the tip of his tongue begging not to be said aloud, not to be given so unconditionally to this perfect stranger. But a part of him, the part being stared into submission by those pale eyes, pushed it out into the open.

“I didn’t leave them, they left me, but they made it very clear they didn’t want me following. And I don’t blame them.”

Not after Lisa was grabbed and Angie was killed and he couldn’t do a thing to stop either. And suddenly having a soldier and a doctor in the group wasn’t worth all the times he had woken up screaming, the gun already in his hand or the knife already at someone’s throat.

He realised as the memories crossed through his mind that his eyes had slipped away from Holmes. He looked back up and was surprised to see the other man’s eyes roll.

“There’s always something.”

After another long moment he tore his gaze away from Holmes and, draining the last of the now rapidly cooling tea, he started to pull out his sleeping bag. He let the practical soldier in him take charge and give orders.

“I don’t want to waste the torch batteries too much so we might as well get some sleep. You stay up on the sofa, I’ll be okay here on the floor. If you need to get up in the middle of the night there’s a bin in the front office that we can empty in the morning. Oh and you need to keep your knee bent. Here.” He dug around in his bag again until he pulled out a beige cable knit jumper which he threw at Holmes. “Put that under your knee to make sure it doesn’t straighten out in the night.”

The other man grinned. “Are those physician’s orders, Doctor Watson?”

So the sneaky git _had_ read his ID tags.

He sat down heavily on the floor then started to slide into his sleeping bag. “They are, Mr Holmes.”

Just as he flicked the switch on the torch he heard the amused reply,

“Sherlock, please.”

The smile didn’t hurt as much this time. “John.”

 

~

 

To his surprise, Sherlock managed to get a few hours of sleep. It was probably because he was on a sofa, he decided as he stretched his seized muscles, the knee giving a slight twinge. He always slept better on sofas. Perhaps he could persuade Mycroft to put one in the lab, then he wouldn’t have to go back to his tiny stuffy bedroom at all.

He opened his eyes but the darkness in the room was so encompassing that he might as well not have bothered. Instead he relied on his hearing which, with the complete silence of the room, made it easy to locate the other man in the dark.

John’s breathing was still as deep and even as it had been when he had gone to sleep. In fact - he frowned - it was exactly the same. Had John slept at all?

He held his breath for a moment to concentrate better on the other man before letting it out slowly. Judging from the location and direction of the breathing John had hardly moved. He would have expected several shifts of position during the night if the other man had attempted to get some sleep. The distinct lack of rustling in the length of time he had been contemplating his companion showed that even now the other man was doing his best to remain as still as possible. John had clearly had no intention of sleeping. He was on guard. On guard against Sherlock.

He resisted letting out an exasperated sigh. Honestly, surely it must have been perfectly obvious by now that he wasn’t a collector? Why on earth would he have chosen to spend the night on a ratty old sofa if he had a car waiting to sweep both him and his unsuspecting victim back to a grand house in the country?

Maybe there was something else then? What else could the other man fear he was? He pressed his hands together under his chin in his automatic thinking position as he contemplated. A thief? A psychopath? Was this why John had chosen the floor rather than the sofa? Had it been a ploy to stay close to the door rather than charity for his knee? How many times during the night had the other man considered simply leaving? The fact that he hadn’t was promising. Still, it was obviously going to take every trick he had to get the man to come with him. Once they were at the Enclave, of course, John would come around, especially when offered the opportunity to become a doctor again. Perhaps – and the thought, bizarre as it was, made him feel strangely warm – they could spend more time together. John could be a helpmate in his lab. Yes, that would be… rather nice actually. John wouldn’t be able to help but agree.

After he had stopped pretending to be asleep of course. Well Sherlock knew how to sort that.

Pulling out his mobile he switched it on and made a great show of looking at the time. Sure enough as soon as the eerie blue light filled the room the other man dismissed all pretence of sleep and sat bolt upright.

“What’s that?”

Sherlock kept his expression neutral as he showed John the lit up screen. “Four thirty,” he said. “The sun will be rising soon, we should make an early start.”

John pulled himself out of his sleeping bag to crouch on the floor, a tenseness to his movements as if he were ready to leap at the slightest movement from Sherlock.

“Is that your mobile?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Obviously,” he said, perhaps overdoing the disdain a little to cover his pleasure as John’s curiosity brought him closer.

“You have battery?”

Of course he had battery, what would be the point of carrying the thing around with him if he didn’t? That said, John’s disbelief was perfectly understandable; electricity was hard to come by these days. Outside of the Enclave of course.

“Here,” he said, holding the phone out only to be surprised when the other man flinched backwards as if he was holding a weapon rather than a mobile. What was it John thought he was doing to phones that always made the other man retreat when they were offered?

Restraining himself from making a biting comment he instead remained motionless, still holding the phone out like one would hold out food to a stray dog. Slowly, with smooth, careful movements, John reached up and took the mobile from him, holding it delicately in the palm of his hand and examining the lit up screen.

“There’s no signal,” John said and actually sounded disappointed.

“Of course not,” he scoffed. “We’re underground. No one ever gets signal when they’re on the tube. If we were above ground we would pick up the signal from the Enclave’s telecommunications tower.” He smiled slightly. “What with that and the others they’ve managed to restore power to, London actually has better coverage now than it did before the Event.” Although with far less people having working phones.

John continued to stare at the screen with a look of deep concentration, as if he was having difficulty thinking something through. Well, no wonder given the lack of sleep he had had. It did make him wonder who, if given the chance, John would want to call, then he wondered if it had crossed the doctor’s mind that he could have simply called home the night before. What was this Doctor John Watson thinking and why was he so curious to know?

John twisted the mobile so he was holding onto only the smallest portion of the furthest corner of the screen and offered it back to him. He took it.

“So you have electricity at this Enclave place.”

The other man made it sound as if to have power was extremely suspect but, not wanting to lie – just yet – he simply gave an affirmative.

“You’ve got your own generator then?”

Another simple yes. He decided that John didn’t need to know that generator was Battersea Power Station.

“Lights, heating,” John seemed unable to keep a hint of longing out of his voice. Nor stop the momentary wistful look towards the kitchen area in the corner of the room. “Electric kettle.”

“Yes.”

John looked him straight in the eye. “Bet you’ve got stacks of food too.”

He felt a smile crook the corner of his lips as he nodded. The other man was playing with him and he could almost sense the punchline.

John turned briskly away from him and, switching on the torch, started going through the bag. “Then you won’t mind if I don’t share my breakfast.”

He laughed. If he was a collector then persuading Doctor John Watson to go _anywhere_ he didn’t want to go really would be a prize in itself.

John appeared stunned by the laughter and gave him a suspicious look. He just smiled disarmingly and was gratified by the confused smile he received in return. He obviously wasn’t meeting John’s expectations. Considering John’s expectations of him seemed to be of a slave trader that was a good thing.

Breakfast turned out to be a paltry affair; a small tin of fruit salad which John ate hunched over as if afraid it would be taken away from him. When Sherlock shifted into a more comfortable position as he planned his next persuasive assault the doctor’s grip on the fork tightened and he was momentarily distracted by thoughts of what exactly the other man would do with that utensil should he try to take the tin away. Try being the optimum word.

The reactions of a soldier. Ah, ex-soldier; queen and country, perfect.

“We have power, heating and food,” he said, putting as much conviction as he dared into his words. “But we don’t have doctors. That is we don’t have enough doctors. We have the greatest minds in the country. Left in the country. Researchers, theorists, experts in the field. We have two surgeons and an Oncologist but what we really need is a specialist in emergency medicine. Accidents happen after all, especially when they are outside the boundaries of the Enclave. And once we start expanding our agricultural endeavours even more accidents are likely to happen. In short you’re needed.” He paused for a moment, briefly pondering whether his next sentence would be laying it on too thickly or exactly the right button to hit. “Very needed, in fact.”

John chewed slowly, his eyes darting over Sherlock’s face as if searching for something. His expression was similar to when he had been looking at the phone and in some ways to how he had looked just after Sherlock said ‘Weavers Fields or Barbican’. As if there are a hundred questions building up behind his eyes and he was having difficulty picking just one.

John swallowed then, ever so slightly, licked his lips.

“You have the greatest minds in the country but no doctors?” he said slowly.

Not quite what he had said but close enough. He nodded, framing his expression into one of concerned earnestness.

John’s eyes narrowed. “Why not?”

Oh for goodness sake, wasn’t that obvious?

“Because they died,” he said with an exasperated sigh. “They all died. A lot died in the Event and the rest were killed when they tried to help people in the riots or rescuing people from the plane crashes or tended to the infected or they volunteered at the distribution centres that were bombed. Doctors are most likely to try and help so they were most likely to put their lives in danger and most likely to die, it’s perfectly logical that there aren’t many about.”

“Of course,” John muttered, looking at the floor. “Why didn’t I think of that?”

“Because you’re an idiot.”

It came out before he could stop it and John’s eyes were instantly on his again, a shocked expression covering his face. It was true but not the most tactical thing to say when he was trying to be persuasive so he quickly amended it with,

“No no no, don’t be like that, practically everyone is.”

John tilted his head slight, looking annoyed. “Except your great minds.”

Now _that_ was debatable. He shrugged. “Some of them.”

This seemed the right thing to say and as John looked more thoughtful than angry as he gave a little, “huh,” and went back to eating.

Deciding to give the other man time to think it through he waited, watching as John drained the last of the juice from the tin, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand then gave the fork a quick polish with a cloth before putting it away.

“This Enclave place,” John said, finally meeting Sherlock’s eye again. “What is it?”

“The last vestiges of the British Government.”

Mycroft’s spiel.

John snorted. “There is no government left. Parliament was destroyed. I saw it.”

“Politicians,” he said with a wave of his hand. “The real government-“ Mycroft. “-went underground after the Event.”

“Along with ‘the greatest minds left in the country’. I think I’ve seen that film.”

He frowned at the bitterness in John’s voice and what was probably some kind of popular culture reference. Suddenly John started to roll up the sleeping blanket with an almost angry ferocity. He wasn’t sure what he had said wrong but as John snatched his jumper off the sofa and started viciously stuffing both it and the sleeping bag back into the duffle bag he knew he was losing the doctor. Deciding desperate times made for desperate measures he leapt to his feet, immediately crashing back down on the sofa with a pained yelp.

John instantly dropped the bag and rushed to his aid, kneeling at his feet.

“Is it your knee? Does it hurt?”

“It’s fine,” he said in a grunt, clutching at it. “Just… when I put pressure on it.”

John started probing the area with gentle fingers. “It doesn’t feel swollen at all. Can you bend it?”

He winced as he demonstrated and John sat back on his heels, a look of realisation slowly dawning over his face.

When the other man said, “Get up,” Sherlock almost thought he heard a touch of disappointment.

 

~

 

It seemed to John that Sherlock was going to the most ridiculous lengths to get him to come with him. He didn’t buy the whole ‘secret underground base with the greatest minds of our generation yet for some reason we desperately need an ill ex-army doctor’ thing for an instant. Still, he couldn’t fathom why Sherlock was trying so hard; even going so far as to exaggerate his knee pain. He hadn’t given up. Even after being frogmarched out of the ticket office and back onto the street he had put on a limp so over the top that under different circumstances John would have cracked up to look at it.

As they emerged out into the dim dawn light he was just bracing himself for whatever was coming next – begging or bribery perhaps, there would certainly be a fight if the other man tried to physically pick him up - when Sherlock briskly turned to him and said,

“I’ll see you around then.”

Before spinning on his heel and walking away.

Stunned, the slightly wounded “What?” escaped him before he could stop it.

It was too much to hope that Sherlock hadn’t heard it; the other man was still persisting in that ridiculous limp and so hadn’t moved that far. Sherlock spun back towards him, his coat billowing out behind him and John found himself on the receiving end of a bored gaze. For an insane moment John missed the heavy weight of Sherlock’s full attention. Then he came to his senses.

“Nothing,” he said, looking in the opposite direction. “Forget it.”

“I’ll delete it accordingly,” Sherlock said in a dismissive tone.

“Del- never mind. Bye then.”

He started to walk away, wondering if Sherlock would stop him once he realised his blatant use of reverse psychology wasn’t going to work. Instead he heard the other man limp purposefully in the other direction. Unable to stop himself he turned and saw the edge of Sherlock’s coat disappear around a corner.

Fighting down the sigh he hunched up his shoulders and headed out into the silent city.

He focused on keeping an eye on the shadows and thinking about where he was going to stay that night. He needed to decide whether to go searching for water again that morning or whether he should find a place to hole up and wait until evening again. He didn’t need to think about tall strangers with dark hair and minds sharper than he’s ever seen or imagined. He wasn’t going to wonder why that stranger would want him to go with them so much then give up so easily. He shouldn’t ponder why they would leave the safety of their own home to explore dust filled offices. He didn’t ask himself why they would be so interested in old desk phones. He definitely-

“Do you always have so many questions?”

His left hand was pushing the speaker’s shoulder against the wall while his right hand was pressing his gun into the man’s throat before he could even blink.

Sherlock gazed quite calmly back at him.

John took a step backwards. “What did you want the phone for?”

Sherlock beamed at him like he was a pet that had learned a new trick. “It’s for a case.”

He didn’t move the gun an inch. “A case?”

“A murder. If, as I suspect, there’s a message for my suspect on that hard drive from his wife it proves the alibi he gave is just a pack of lies.”

“How could she have left a message with the power down?”

Sherlock waved a hand dismissively. “This is from before the Event, but the message should still be on there.”

He was trying to solve a murder from before the Event? Why? Who would care? Why would he leave the safety of that Enclave place just to find that out?

“Because I want to know,” Sherlock said.

“Did you know the victim?” John asked, desperate to find some sense to the man in front of him. “Do you know the killer? Is he still alive?”

“No, no and probably not. I just hate not knowing.”

John pushed his gun into the waistband of his trousers and swung his bag off his shoulder. Yanking it open he dug around until he found the desk phone and the hard drive that the insane man had forced on him the day before. He grabbed them and held them out.

“There, take them.” Sherlock didn’t move. “That’s what you came out here for, just take them!”

He stopped himself and took a few calming breaths as he realised that raising his voice was not a good idea.

“They’re perfectly safe in your bag,” Sherlock replied mildly.

John pushed them into Sherlock’s chest. “I’m not going with you.”

Sherlock just smiled.

“You say you’ve got this great place with food and water and heating and yet you come out here and face down guns and collectors just to _know_? Just to find out if you were right? This is just how you get your kicks, isn’t it? Risking your life to prove you’re clever.”

Sherlock frowned slightly. “Why would I do that?”

He felt like everything was collapsing around him. Four months of desperation, of fighting, of struggle and misery just to survive and it was all falling to pieces. His shoulders sagged, his arm dropped, his eyes dropped closed and his chest heaved an almighty sigh.

“Because you’re an idiot.”

He cracked his eyes open at Sherlock’s amused chuckle. He examined the other man’s expression expecting to see smug triumph, but was instead met only with genuine humour and pleasure. He felt his own lips curve into an involuntary returning smile.

He hadn’t smiled for ten months and Sherlock Holmes had managed to coax four out of him in under twenty-four hours. Impossible, astonishing man.

“Coming?” Sherlock asked.

John shoved the phone and hard drive back into his bag, tugged it closed, then swung it onto his back.

“I guess so.” He frowned suddenly. “How’s your knee?”

Sherlock leaned down and rubbed it slightly. “Hurts a little.”

John shook his head. “Then you really shouldn’t have run all the way around the block.”

 

~

 

Sherlock had hoped that John’s acquiescence would mean the doctor would stop being so nervous but he was very quickly proved wrong. As they walked south together the other man was so tense he could have bounced a stone off him and he didn’t even have to bother checking the area in case they were being followed as John spent so much time looking around and over his shoulder that Sherlock thought he would get a crick in his neck.

Attempting to calm the ex-soldier down he decided to explain about the crime that had led him to the office; about the death threats, how the body was found, his initial suspicions about the husband and the irregularities between his statement and the crime scene. John seemed amused by his description of the confrontation with the rentboy who turned out to be an assassin, and when he went into detail about the scuffs on the sister’s jacket that eventually led him to the murder weapon John gave a delighted cry of “Brilliant!” which was rather a surprise. When he narrated his deductions on the dog’s dinner he got another exclamation, this time a “That’s fantastic!” accompanied by an almost awed expression. That startled him so much he asked, “Do you know you do that out loud?” before he could stop himself.

John looked down, chastened. “Sorry, I’ll shut up.”

“No,” he quickly jumped in. “It’s… fine.”

He talked practically non-stop until they reached the entrance to the tunnel, experimenting with subject, context and language to see exactly what provoked such pleasingly enthusiastic responses from John. It was gratifying to be around someone who appreciated his genius, even if it always seemed to be the most trivial logical leaps that John found the most astonishing. A warm, pleasing feeling seem to unfurl in his stomach every time the doctor offered up his praise. When he won a smile off the other man his chest tightened in an uncomfortable but frankly thrilling way.

He wondered briefly what it would take to get John to laugh.

It was all going so well until they reached the lion statue near Vauxhall bridge. There was a little gateway tucked around the corner which looked to most people like it led to a dead-end. But then most people never looked properly. As he unlocked it with his key and started heading down the hidden stairs there he realised John had stopped following. Glancing briefly at the guarded look on his companion’s face he decided to continue walking confidently down the stairs. John would follow, how could he not? Sure enough by the time he was halfway down he heard the following footsteps and the clang of the door being shut firmly. He managed to control his most likely rather smug smile by the time he reached the pressure doors at the bottom just as John caught up.

For the twenty minutes it took to walk along the tunnel that led to the Enclave’s main entrance John fell into a grim silence that even infected Sherlock with its quietness but not its misery. While his companion wore a dour, determined expression as if preparing to go into battle he was fighting off the frisson of excitement that urged him to grab John’s hand and run the rest of the way. He couldn’t quite understand it. It was almost like how he used to feel when he was close to solving a case. For some reason he felt it was vital he got John within the confines of the Enclave, and not just because of his usefulness as a doctor. But that kind of behaviour would probably spook John, not to mention be bad on his still tender knee.

Still it was hard to resist the skip in his step when they reached the combination doors at the end of the corridor and he twirled for the benefit of the camera – giving them a nice clear view of him just in case the fifty other cameras that lined the tunnel hadn’t caught sight of him. After he had tapped in his code the doors opened with a click and he gestured John through, noting pleasingly that the doctor didn’t hesitate a second this time.

They were almost home, just had to go through what the security staff had insisted on calling the foyer in spite of it just being the blocked up end of the tunnel. These sliding metal doors could only be opened from the inside and the camera – or at least one of the cameras – was more obvious. He could see John eyeing it warily then jumping a little as the speakers – which, along with the microphone, weren’t so obvious – cut in filling the room with a familiar voice.

“Who is he?”

He smiled. Excellent, Lestrade was on duty.

“He’s with me,” he replied.

“No, but who is he?”

“I said he’s with me.”

He noted with some interest how shocked John looked by the exchange. He could see the other man’s breathing speeding up and his fingers twitch towards where Sherlock knew his gun was kept.

“Sherlock, you know I can’t just let anyone in on your say-“

“So, what do you think, Doctor Watson?”

He addressed his remarks to John who jumped again and gave him a stare that was only a little bit wide eyed. There was a long pause in which he kept his eyes firmly locked with Johns before the doors slid open and he had to resist the urge to grab the other man’s arm and pull him through. Thankfully the other man followed him as he entered.

He couldn’t quite tear his eyes away from the doctor as he stared around at the new room, watching as the other man took in the three doors – one to the left, one to the right and one in front just next to a video screen – it contained. John breathed out deeply and met his eyes, looking thoughtful.

“Three doors,” John said slowly, as if trying to sound something out. “I guess one leads to safety, one leads to death and the guards always lie?”

Sherlock frowned, not believing for a second that John actually thought that was the case but not entirely understanding where the suggestion had come from.

“No.” He pointed to the left door. “That leads to decon long route.” The right door. “That leads to decon short route.” The middle door. “And that’s the guards’ door. Although they do always lie. Doesn’t everyone?”

John gave a start of laughter so sudden even he seemed shocked by it. Sherlock felt like he could float through the ceiling. He’d done it! Now if only he could understand how.

His thoughts were interrupted by the video screen flicking on displaying the image of Lestrade sitting back in his office chair, gently twisting from side to side.

“Sherlock,” Lestrade said, sounding annoyed as usual. “Where have you been?”

“Busy,” he said simply.

It was a pointless question anyway. What did it matter where he had been? All that mattered was that he was here now and had brought a doctor back with him.

“You’re supposed to check in if you’re going to be out longer than expected.” Lestrade rolled his eyes. “That’s when you actually tell us how long you expect to be out.”

Sherlock sighed but was still in too good a mood to make any kind of sarcastic response.

“And what happened to your leg?”

Sherlock was bored of this now. “Sprained knee. Luckily I found a doctor to patch me up. Now are we going to stand here all day or…?”

Lestrade hmphed. “He needs to leave his gun and his bag here.”

John didn’t say anything but Sherlock saw him grip the straps of his bag noticeably tighter. Lestrade obviously spotted it as well.

“Don’t worry, you’ll get everything back if you’re staying.”

John very slowly slipped the bag off his shoulder and lowered it to the floor. “And if I’m not?”

Lestrade couldn’t avoid John’s eyes over a video screen but he looked away anyway. John turned to Sherlock, panic etched over all his features.

“What happens if I’m not staying?”

Sherlock waved his hand vaguely. “Irrelevant.” He gestured towards the left hand door. “Off you go.”

“And you, Sherlock,” said Lestrade firmly.

Sherlock whipped around to glare at the screen. “What? No! Long route?”

Lestrade threw up his hands in exasperation. “You know the rules. You’ve been in sustained contact with the general population. You have to go through full decontamination.”

Huffing, Sherlock shrugged out of his coat and dropped it delicately on top of John’s bag. “Fine. Come on, John.”

He moved towards the door but Lestrade’s voice cut across them yet again.

“The gun, doctor.”

Sherlock looked towards John who seemed to be silently fuming. Very slowly and extremely reluctantly the doctor dipped his hand into his pocket and pulled out the Sig P226. The ex-soldier’s finger went to the trigger automatically and he stood staring at it for a long time before eventually placing it very gently down on top of Sherlock’s coat.

Sherlock reached for him and very lightly placed his hand on John’s arm. When he started to guide the other man towards the door John gave him a resigned look and allowed himself to be manoeuvred through it. With the tiniest sigh of relief, Sherlock shut the door behind them both.


	3. Chapter 3

Behind the door were two figures out of a bad science fiction movie. Two people of undefinable gender covered head to toe in orange hazmat suits with impenetrable face masks came towards him with some kind of handheld machine which buzzed threateningly.

He recoiled backwards, desperately cursing himself for having been so stupid as to give up his gun when Sherlock’s hand steadied his elbow in a firm but not restrictive grip. He met Sherlock’s eyes and, seeing reassurance there, let himself be guided forward a few steps until the machine was able to buzz over them both. He kept his eyes locked on Sherlock’s, becoming calmer as he watched how the other man took it all in his stride, even going as far as dramatically rolling his eyes as if bored by the process. They only broke gaze when one of the suits started asking them pretty standard questions about where they had been, what they had done, what they had eaten etc.

It was just all part of this decontamination process he realised. If Sherlock was happy – or at least willing – to put up with it then it must be standard procedure and not some really strange way of preparing him for whatever it was they wanted with him.

He did his best to answer the questions, although it was hard to tell which of the suits were asking him as the voice came slightly distortedly out of a speaker the other side of the room. He hazarded a guess at it being the one making vague nodding motions and aimed his replies in their direction.

Sherlock didn’t bother to address either of them, just gave short, sharp answers with a general air of ‘Are we done here?’ then rolled up his sleeve with an annoyed huff. John followed suit and held still while blood samples and a skin scraping were taken, all the while watching Sherlock to see what was going to happen next. Whatever it was it apparently required rolling down his sleeve with a dissatisfied smirk and sweeping through a side door faster than he could blink. He made to follow but the suits stopped him, blocking his way and dismissing his attempts to explain that he had to follow Sherlock by insisting they had more questions.

Why did Sherlock get to walk away and he didn’t? Had the other man abandoned him to some kind to trap? But then the suits started asking their questions which turned out to be a typical medical history just as he would do with any new patient. Or new inhabitant?

Any existing medical conditions? Did the hole in his shoulder count?

Sarcasm was apparently wasted on plastic.

He explained about his bullet wound and about the army, then gave his serial number when asked, which caused one of the suits to get excited – or possibly upset or angry or maybe it just needed the loo, it was hard to tell – and run out the door. Meanwhile he told the other one about his Loreslepin poisoning and how he had been treating himself with Nevirapine. There were more blood samples, a saliva sample and a urine sample – which thankfully he was allowed to go behind a screen to provide – until he was nearly at the end of his tether as far as obedient cooperation went. Then finally they let him go through the next door where Sherlock would no doubt be waiting impatiently for him to hurry up.

Except Sherlock wasn’t there; there was no sign of the other man. There was, however, a clothes bin.

Deciding to get the rest of this over with as quickly as possible he stripped off his clothing before hesitating slightly over his ID tags.

Four months before, when he had gotten home and shut the door against the screaming and the sirens on the street, he had taken the chain out and stared at it. Putting them on had made him feel like a soldier again. They reminded him of the panic and pain of Afghanistan and of the men out there who probably weren’t there anymore. They had reminded him that he had left his cane on the pavement outside the tube station where he had dropped it. He had decided that day that he needed to be a soldier to get through what was happening. Taking it them off now felt like giving up the fight for good. But the doctor in him said that if this was a full decontamination then everything had to come off.

He dropped the chain in the bin with his clothes and moved through to the next stage.

It was a shower cubicle with a shelf of different coloured chemicals and a laminated sign nailed to the wall detailing how and in which order he was to use them. He pulled the cord that obviously started the water and- oh god he was in heaven!

The water was warm, pure and gorgeous against his skin. The dirt peeled off underneath its spray and for the first time ever he could almost understand why some people let themselves be collected. No matter what happened next he would always have this moment of utter luxury. He hadn’t felt this clean for months. He hadn’t even been aware that this much clean flowing water still existed. How had he taken showers for granted before? They were glorious! He could stay here for _hours_.

Eventually he turned his attention to the line of chemicals. The blue body gel first, then the green one which smelt vaguely of peppermint. Next the white shampoo for his hair which set off another moment of nostalgia for something he never realised he missed. The joy of kneading shampoo into his hair and scalp, of rinsing it out and feeling how clean it was. How had he spent his whole life not realising how amazing that felt?

There was a pinkish bottle of liquid he didn’t recognise but suspected wasn’t conditioner, that had to go in his hair next. Followed by a purple body soap. Afterwards he allowed himself the pleasure of just standing under the spray again, letting all the chemicals wash off and his fingers wrinkle up just for the sake of it. When he thought about it he was surprised he had been allowed to stand there so long. After all, they couldn’t possibly have an endless supply of warm water, could they? Hadn’t Sherlock said something about a purification system? But no one interrupted him and he was allowed to choose when to put an end to the shower without a sigh of regret.

Waiting for him in the next room was a towel but also one of the suited figures again. Or possibly a new one, it was hard to tell.

He dried himself off then was inspected head to toe before he was allowed to cover his modesty. Particular attention was paid to his discoloured fingers, the bullet wound on his shoulder and, for some reason, his right leg.

The suit stayed with him as he was guided to a sink and handed a razor and shaving foam. As he started to take off four months of untrimmed beard under the suit’s watchful eye – or face mask as the case may be – he wondered for a wild moment what the suit would do if he made a sudden move with the razor, either towards the suit or himself. He dismissed it as not worth thinking about, partially because it was a safety razor and probably wouldn’t do much damage, and partially because in the mirror in front of him a reflection he recognised but hadn’t seen for four months was starting to appear. As he finished off he relished in the fact that after far too long he was able to look himself in the eyes and feel human again.

Taking the razor from him the suit handed over a toothbrush and toothpaste then disappeared through the next door along. John concentrated on brushing his teeth and not looking at what was going down the drain. His thoughts drifted to Sherlock who probably hadn’t spent an age under the shower and another age getting all the fuzz off his face – not that Sherlock had any fuzz which rather made his point. He had no doubt whizzed through all this. John wondered where he was. Wondered whether he was waiting for him.

He rinsed out his mouth then looked in the mirror and was mildly surprised to see John Watson smiling back at him.

 _Hello, stranger_.

The next room contained a collection of white hospital scrubs, grey slipper socks and, mercifully, clean underwear. He pulled on a selection in his size then went through the next door, relieved that it all seemed to be over and he could get on with finding Sherlock and demanding an explanation of this place.

It wasn’t over.

The next room looked like a medical examination room with a metal table in the middle and various equipment and drugs lining the walls. A very young looking doctor in a white coat, gloves and a face mask stood to one side clinging to a chart as if her life depended on it. Most of John’s attention, however, was summoned by the man standing with his hands in his pockets in front of the next door. He was tall, wore a full three piece suit that was slightly too small for him, had dark hair and a slight but very smug smile.

“Have a seat, John.”

He gestured towards the table with an almost imperceptible nod.

John’s automatic instinct was to refuse but fought it down and hopped gently up onto the table. It was just more medical tests, he had come this far, he could put up with a few more. He couldn’t help being a little put out when the man’s smile widened ever so slightly.

“Miss Webber here is going to take care of your Loreslepin… problem. If you would suffer under her ministrations for a few moments more.”

Miss Webber? Not a doctor then. Unless she was one of the two surgeons Sherlock had mentioned. No, far too young, surely?

A response seemed to be required of him so he nodded and Miss Webber moved forward and started to examine his fingers.

The man continued to stare at him. It felt rather like the man was trying to dissect and examine him using only his eyes. It reminded him of Sherlock at their first encounter, trying to figure him out using only visual clues. Except this time he didn’t have a bag or a gun or shoes to give anything away. Instead it was like the man was looking under his very skin and reading what was written there. John vaguely thought that Sherlock should take lessons from this guy, then dismissed that as a bad idea.

“Shouldn’t you be wearing a mask?” John asked eventually, just to break the silence that was beginning to feel like some kind of deadlock.

“The initial tests on both yours and Sherlock’s blood tests came back negative for anything especially worrying,” the man said in a tone that wasn’t as reassuring as such good news should be. “You’re no danger to me.”

That sounded like an insult and John internally bridled at the suggestion. He bit back the urge to show exactly how dangerous he could be. He didn’t think he showed any of his reaction but the man seemed to read it anyway and his smile grew just a little bit more.

“What did Sherlock tell you about us?” the man asked.

“What did Sherlock tell you about me?” John shot back before he had thought about it properly.

The man’s eyebrows arched upwards but John wasn’t able to see if this reaction was accompanied with yet another widening of the smile as Miss Webber suddenly shone a penlight in one of his eyes.

By the time she had finished examining both of his eyes and he had blinked away the purple spots, the man seemed to be deeply engrossed in reading the papers attached to the clipboard that Miss Webber had been clinging to so tightly before.

“I think, Doctor Watson,” the man said, without looking up, “that you would make an excellent addition to our medical team. Your file here is quite impressive.”

“My file?”

“Although going by this it is somewhat surprising that it was my brother who showed up with a limp, not you.”

“Wait, whoa. Your brother? You’re Sherlock’s brother?”

The man – Holmes, John corrected himself, probably – lifted his head and gave him a perfectly calm look. John realised Sherlock probably had taken staring lessons from this guy.

“I can see the resemblance,” he said, weakly.

Holmes smiled again. “I’m sure Sherlock will be thrilled to hear that. Miss Webber?”

Miss Webber was suddenly beside him with a syringe filled with a pale beige liquid. John reacted instantly, throwing himself off the table and around it so it was a barrier between the two of them. Miss Webber appeared surprised, even a little scared – it was hard to tell with her face mostly covered – at his sudden movement. Then her eyes crinkled slightly as if she was trying to smile reassuringly under the mask.

“It’s Lorimpoxate,” she said. “It counteracts the Loreslepin poisoning. You’ll need two more injections over the next three days but you should recover completely.”

“Miss Webber is a medical student,” Holmes said, not reacting at all to John’s sudden distress.

John shifted so he could keep both of them in his eye line.

“As part of your duties here,” Holmes continued, “you’ll be required to teach her and any other suitably educated volunteers.”

“I thought it was really clever the way you identified the primary symptoms,” Miss Webber said, eagerly. “How did you realise Nevirapine would,” she trailed off as Holmes gave her a piercing look, “work.”

John looked between the two of them. “Well the first thing I’d need to teach her is some bedside manners.”

Holmes turned his attention back to the file. “Quite.”

Miss Webber shuffled her feet as if uncertain.

“How do I know that’s not,” John floundered for words, “mind control serum or something.”

Holmes flicked a page over and didn’t look up. “Don’t be ridiculous, Doctor Watson, the mind control serum is blue.”

Miss Webber gave Holmes a scared look. John decided not to react.

“Trust issues, it says here,” said Holmes, pointing to the file. “And yet you came all the way here. Could it be possible you decided to trust Sherlock?”

Holmes finally met John’s eye again. John stared back at him. His stares may not be as impressive as those displayed by the Holmes brothers but by god he was going to give as good as he could. He had never backed down in his life and he wasn’t about to start now. Even if he had no idea how anyone got hold of that particular detail about him.

Holmes closed the file. “Doctor Watson, at this very moment we have no reason to harm you. What we need from you is your medical expertise and we have no intention of dulling them through drugs or losing them through your present affliction. You are currently worth more to us alive and well than dead, so please believe me when I say the antidote will cause you no harm.”

“And if I stop being worth more alive and well?”

“Then you will be the first to know about it, I assure you.”

Even with the face mask the horror on Miss Webber’s face as she stared at Holmes was obvious. John, on the other hand, felt strangely reassured by the honesty and made his way back around to the other side of the table. Without breaking eye contact with Holmes he pulled himself up onto the table and offered Miss Webber his arm. He then had to surreptitiously prod her before she came back to herself enough to inject him with the antidote.

“Erm,” she said, “you’ll need to report back to the infirmary in twenty-four hours to get your next injection. If you suffer any dizziness, nausea, difficulty breathing, headache, chest pains or severe irritation in your extremities, particularly around the discolouration you need to come to the infirmary at once. Erm,” she gave Holmes another worried look, which he ignored, before turning to the side and coming back with a long, thin blue plastic strip with a metal medallion, a bit like a watch. She snapped it around his wrist. “This is your wristband. At the moment it’s set for blue zone only and if you try to go through any door to another zone it will set off an alarm so… don’t. Um…”

She looked towards Holmes.

“Thank you, Miss Webber, you may go.”

She let out an obviously relieved breath and, without a second glance towards John, practically fled out the door.

“Nice girl,” said John.

Holmes tilted his head slightly. “We need her, if this place is to continue. More than we need you in some ways. You can help us in the here and now. She is the future. You grew up in Chelmsford, I believe. Tell me, did you ever visit the Nuclear Bunker at Kelvedon Hatch?”

John nodded, he had visited on a school trip when he was twelve.

“Were you aware that the bunker was only equipped for just a few years survival? In the case of full nuclear attack the personnel were fully expected to die there. I can assure you, that is not the case here. I fully intend that this place will be a haven for its inhabitants for as long as is needed, and the birthing point of the new British Nation after that. Even if it takes a dozen generations. Do you understand that I will not let anything or anyone interfere with that?”

John didn’t think, he just nodded.

“And do you understand how you can help with that goal?”

This time John hesitated. Holmes carried on regardless.

“Procedure dictates that you are restricted to blue zone for three days. I expect you could use that time to rest and recuperate anyway. Once the remaining tests have been cleared I will arrange for you to be shown the main infirmary and introduced to the rest of the medical staff.

“As Miss Webber said, that wristband will restrict your movements to within the stated zone. Please do not attempt to go through any door marked as leading towards another zone. It will be locked against you. This still holds true in the case of an emergency so even if an alarm sounds do not go through the marked doors, you will only inhibit the evacuation of others.

“The chip in the band also monitors your allocation of food, water and entertainment. You can redeem it at the canteen, I’m sure someone will be able to point you in the right direction. Right now I will arrange a room for you. Good day, Doctor Watson.”

 

~

 

Sherlock very nearly regretted leaving John behind to speed through the rest of decon when he reached the medical room and that student, Helen, insisted on re-strapping his knee. He had rather been hoping John would be able to do it, but he didn’t have the patience to wait. Since it was the other man’s first time entering the Enclave John was going to take ages to get all the way through and he was eager to get his hands on the hard drive.

He didn’t even bother to waste time drying his hair, although he did change his clothes - he hated those medical scrubs – then he dashed straight off to the security office to set about persuading Lestrade to let him have the hard drive, ignoring the continuous drips of water sliding down the back of his neck. Fifteen minutes and several promises not to let the hard drive anywhere near any networked computers later he was sat in his lab attaching various wires to his laptop.

It was at that point that Mycroft came to inflict his presence.

He tried to avoid seeing very much of his brother. Having permanent residence in blue zone had many advantages – less distractions, access to samples as soon as they came in, having his own permanent room to return to after a too long excursion resulted in a three day confinement – but none of them were quite as advantageous as the fact that it was far away from the high security red zone where Mycroft lived and worked.

Ever since parliament had been destroyed and all the pretences as to who actually ran the country had been dropped, Mycroft had become insufferable. Some people might take comments about the ‘weight of the future’ being heavy upon his shoulders as mere hyperbole but Sherlock knew them for what they were; boasts. At his darkest moments he suspected Mycroft was happy that the Event had happened. That it was just the excuse his brother had needed to take the world to pieces and rebuild it how he liked. Then he would recall the look of panic in his brother’s eyes when Mycroft had picked him up on that day four months before - and he still had no idea how Mycroft had got a car through all that chaos. He had never seen his brother so afraid, and so relieved to see him, he had almost not recognised him.

Still, Mycroft may run the Enclave but he didn’t run _him_. He took pains to remind his brother of that at every available opportunity. So he did nothing to acknowledge him, only briefly checked that his violin was within reach should more desperate measures to chase off his brother be required.

Mycroft, for his part, merely leaned back against the work bench and appeared to watch him work for a while.

How had it been possible for the man to ever fade into the background during his political career? No matter how hard Sherlock tried to ignore him and continue his work, beginning to hack his way onto the drive, his brother’s presence niggled at him like an alarm constantly going off, making the hair on the back of his neck stand up. Or was this just some special power Mycroft only brought out for him?

When Mycroft casually folded his arms like he was quite happy to stand there all day, Sherlock couldn’t resist the jibe,

“It’s a shame you don’t carry that umbrella around with you anymore. You were much more intimidating with it.”

“It seemed absurd to be forever carrying an umbrella when I never go outside,” said Mycroft.

Sherlock didn’t respond to that and Mycroft seemed to take it as his cue to say what he wanted and then would, hopefully, get the hell out.

“I don’t suppose you did get those plant cuttings I sent you out for,” Mycroft said.

Sherlock finally raised his eyes from the laptop screen in front of him to give his brother a brief bored glance.

“I got you a doctor instead, isn’t that better?”

Mycroft made a small non-committal noise. “I’ll give you that he is eminently qualified but couldn’t you have found one a bit tamer? This one might be a problem.”

“There wasn’t a lot of choice.”

Mycroft uncrossed his arms and braced them against the bench. Sherlock felt the full force of his brother’s gaze bore into the side of his face. The next sentence was undoubtedly going to be a test.

“No doubt he’ll calm down, become more manageable, in time.”

A small disgusted noise involuntarily escaped from the back of his throat. That would be horrible. John was independent, free spirited, actually thought for himself and at the same time thought he was marvellous. Would Mycroft really try and crush that out of the man?

“If you didn’t think that was possible then why did you bring him here?”

Of course Mycroft would, that was what he did. He put people into little boxes labelled ‘useful’ and ‘to be got rid of’. He wanted John to become a little tin solder-medic. Sherlock wouldn’t allow that.

“He’s interesting,” Sherlock said, turning a firm expression in Mycroft’s direction.

“He’s a wild element,” Mycroft said.

“Exactly.”

Sherlock turned back to the screen and continued his work, determined that Mycroft would get no further rise from him.

“You seem to have gotten very attached very quickly,” Mycroft said.

Sherlock continued his silence. There was nothing he could say to that anyway. A denial would be instantly detected as a lie. A suggestion that Mycroft should bugger off and leave him alone would be taken as conciliation. At times like this he almost wished for the days when he could distract Mycroft with a comment about the other man’s diet. However, since everyone was on the same strictly controlled diet these days he had lost that advantage.

“You should consider that he may not be in a fit state to return that attachment. I wouldn’t want you to get hurt.”

Again Sherlock said nothing, forced himself into an expression that gave nothing away. Although he suspected he was punching the keyboard a little firmer than before.

“If he’s trouble he won’t be staying.”

Shocked, Sherlock finally let his attention be brought up to his brother’s face again. Mycroft was looking completely serious and very severe.

“We need another doctor,” Sherlock said, probing Mycroft’s resolve.

Mycroft knew the chances of them finding another doctor wandering about was next to none. So he couldn’t be so willing to push the one they had just got away so easily. Surely not?

“Bear that in mind before you act,” Mycroft said simply

He left with a parting cry of, “Don’t forget the Report.”

Sherlock turned back to the screen but didn’t see it, just stared in its direction, unfocused. He ran the conversation through his head, analysing it for meaning, hidden meaning, second and third meaning. He dissected every syllable to get to the truth, to try and figure out exactly what it was that Mycroft had seen in John – no more than that, had seen in him and John – that he hadn’t.

He physically shook himself to jolt back into the present. He decided to put it aside for the moment and concentrate on the hard drive instead. He was going to hack in, listen to the messages and find out if he was right. And once he had discovered he was he would go find John and show him too. John was bound to be impressed and call him brilliant again. Maybe even smile at him. That would be good. He’d like that.

 

~

 

As John took his first steps out of the medical room and into the main corridor of the Enclave blue zone he felt… Well in all honesty he had no idea how he felt. It was like stepping onto an alien planet. Except in some ways it was so familiar so maybe it was like stepping onto one of those television alien planets where it’s actually filmed on a beach in Wales you once visited on holiday when you were nine but it’s different because you’re not used to it looking like that so it just seems like an alien planet and you genuinely don’t know what’s around the corner even though logically you know there’s just a little stall that sells ice creams and hot doughnuts and-

Suffice to say he was more than a little disorientated by the experience.

There were corridors and then more corridors branching off in different directions. The floor, walls and ceilings were all concrete grey but with a blue band painted along the top of the wall. Apart from the door he had just walked through which was white, all the doors were also blue but were different shades, sizes and designs. He couldn’t tell from first glance whether this meant something or whether whoever built this place merely couldn’t get all doors the same type.

What threw him, though, were the people. The sheer number of them. Most in some form of military uniform, a few in civilian clothes, walking past, chatting casually. In the time he just stood and tried not to gawp more people walked past him than he had seen in the last week. Part of him knew he was being ridiculous. Four months ago he would not have considered this busy. If this had been any of bases he had been assigned to or any of the hospitals he had worked at he would have called it quiet and wondered where everyone was. But he was so used to the deathly hush the Event had brought about that these few people just strolling along so… normally were giving him a headache.

Desperate for some kind of anchor he stopped the next person to pass him with a query of,

“Do you know where Sherlock Holmes is?”

 _So he can explain all this_ , he thought, _or possibly so I can hit him for wandering off_.

The woman, who had dark curly hair, a petulant expression and was one of the few people in casual clothes, slouched back on her heels and sighed.

“Probably shut himself up in his lab. He does that.” She narrowed her eyes at him. “You’re his latest stray, aren’t you? What did he do, follow you home?”

He thought about answering then decided against it for two reasons. Firstly because it was complicated, after all it was more ‘was carried’ than followed and more ‘hidey hole’ than home. Secondly because he had taken an instant dislike to the woman as soon as she had called him a ‘stray’. What did she mean by latest anyway?

“If you could just point me in the direction of his lab-“

“What’s so special about you then, to catch his eye?” She looked him up and down as she spoke then smirked.

John shook his head. “Nothing,” he said honestly. “I’m no one.”

“Well take my advice, now that you’re here, forget about him. Whatever he told you out there he’s not your friend. He doesn’t have friends. You’re not the first stray he’s brought home and you won’t be the last. So do yourself a favour and stay away from Sherlock Holmes.”

Before John could react a familiar sounding voice called across the hallway,

“Doctor Watson!”

The grey haired guard from the video screen jogged over and immediately offered his hand.

“We haven’t been properly introduced. I’m Lestrade.”

John stared at the hand, his brain automatically coming up with an exit strategy just in case he was grabbed and pounced on by the too many people in the corridor. After a moment Lestrade seemed to notice his distress and removed his hand, pushing it into a pocket instead. John briefly closed his eyes and tried to calm down his heartbeat. When he opened them and looked up the older man was giving him a friendly smile.

“John,” he said with a quick nod.

“Right, John,” Lestrade said in a business-like but still genial tone. “The rest of your stuff is still going through checking but I thought you’d want this back.”

It was his wallet, which had been pushed to the very depths of his bag. He took it from the outstretched hand and tried not to think too much about the rest of his things, his precious kit, being gone through by strangers.

“We can’t let you have the cards back,” Lestrade continued, “until we’re sure there’s nothing in the magnetic strips.”

What did they think he had done to the magnetic strips? How would he do anything like that? The only reason he’d kept a few cards in his wallet was so he could use them to open doors. He had dumped the money and all those old receipts that used to clog it up. Apart from the cards there was only one reason he had kept the wallet at all.

“But I thought you’d appreciate having the photos back.”

John nodded involuntarily but with force and opened it to have a look at them. He had never had many photos around; he had always been of the belief that if you couldn’t remember it without props it wasn’t worth remembering. But there were three that were important to him and he had folded them delicately into his wallet before he left his flat. There were two group photos and a portrait. The group photos were of him and his unit in Afghanistan – taken just outside camp when things were still new and they were still just excited to be out there – and him with mates from uni when they had gone on a rugby trip to Norway. Well it hadn’t been so much as a rugby trip, more a drunken mistake which had landed the entire rugby team at London City Airport at which point it had seemed such a brilliant idea to get on a plane to Norway. He was standing in the front in both photos, the perils of being short. In the Norway picture his friend Gary was making a rude gesture behind his head, but since Gary was wearing a traffic cone – an English one, he still had no idea how Gary had smuggled it onto the plane – he really hadn’t been worried about looking like the foolish one in the group.

 _All gone_ , he thought.

The portrait was of his sister Harry. That was the only one that had started out in the wallet. He used to have one of her and her wife Clara from their wedding but during an argument shortly after he had returned from Afghanistan Harry had taken it out of his wallet and ripped it in half. She had sent him this photo a week later as an apology. The only reason he had kept it was because she looked so bright eyed and sober. It was one of the few times he needed a prop to remember her like that, instead of how she was when he actually saw her in person.

“Thanks,” he said.

“Listen,” said Lestrade, “would you mind having a look at our memorial wall. We usually like to have new arrivals look at it as soon as possible. See if they recognise anyone.”

John considered saying no and continuing his search for Sherlock but then he remembered what the woman had said about him only being Sherlock’s ‘latest’ stray and how ‘he wasn’t the first and he wouldn’t be the last’. Sherlock had been quick enough to drop him and a memorial wall would at least give him something to do so instead he nodded and said,

“Yeah, sure.”

Lestrade nodded, turned and led the way. Without sparing a second glance at the bad-tempered woman he fell into step behind.

Lestrade chatted amiably as they walked, making little comments like, “I know this place seems a bit like a maze at first but you get used to it.” And, “Are you into football? We’ve got a little five-a-side tournament going on here, you should come along.”

He had an easy, laid-back manner and didn’t seem to mind when John responded only with non-committal noises or short sharp words or sometimes didn’t respond at all.

John was too busy watching where they were going, trying to form a mental map of the place. The corridors remained grey and concrete but were occasionally decorated with paper signs or clocks which told him it was nearly half past nine. Some of the doors they passed were colours other than blue; mostly they were green but once or twice were white, yellow or pale pink. Although Lestrade didn’t say anything John guessed these led to the other zones that had been mentioned.

Eventually they turned the corner to the memorial wall. It was instantly recognisable and Lestrade didn’t bother to tell him what it was or explain what was expected of him, the other man merely leaned back against the opposite wall and let him be.

Soon after the Event memorial walls had popped up all over London, all over the world probably. They were usually chaotic masses of pictures, drawings, with names and messages plastered haphazardly over the top, all placed there by people desperately trying to find out if their loved ones were alive out there. The optimistic called them message boards and relied on word of mouth to help find the lost. Most people called them memorial walls. After all, the phone networks didn’t start going down fully until a week or two after the Event. If those pictured on the wall hadn’t got in contact with the person who left the message by then they were most likely either dead or trying to pretend they were. After that the odds leaned decidedly towards not pretending.

John had looked at all the London walls, and had even diligently checked the wall near Barbican for updates every day he was working there, but he had never put a picture on one.

This wall was more structured, with the pictures lined up neatly and the names written directly onto the wall beneath. There were black marker pens littering the floor at the bottom of the wall. Every now and then there would be photo sized gap along the wall and the name below would be crossed out. John couldn’t help wondering whether that was because the person in question had been found or found dead.

John walked along the wall, obediently examining every picture and trying, for the sake of whoever had put it up, to compare the faces to ones he had seen on the street. Hundreds of smiling strangers looked back at him. At one group photo he paused and did a double take. Lestrade stood up straight.

“Someone you recognise?”

John frowned. “I’m not sure.” He pointed to a group photo of about twenty men and women who looked about student age and were crowded around two men and a woman of about his age. One of the older men had caught his attention. “He looks a bit like someone I went to medical school with but… I think it is him. Mike Stamford. He’s gotten fat.”

Lestrade walked over to look at it. “That’s Helen’s class from medical school. He must have been one of her teachers.”

“Helen?”

“Helen Webber, our medical student. She probably did your exam during decon. The proper doctors are too important to deal with new arrivals,” he said bitterly then looked a little embarrassed. “No offence.”

“None taken.” John read the words under the photo, ‘St Barts, class of 2013’. “Mike and I trained at Barts,” he said wonderingly. “He was a teacher there? I bet he loved it.”

“You haven’t seen him recently then?” Lestrade asked directly.

John shook his head sadly. “No.”

Lestrade relaxed back against the wall and John took that as a cue to continue. None of the other people caught his eye and soon he was staring at an empty wall with Lestrade back beside him.

“Want to put anything up?”

John paused a moment, thinking of the three pictures in his wallet. Out of all of the people depicted in them there was only one he would do anything, truly anything, to see again.

“Yeah,” he said, his voice coming out soft and thoughtful, “I’d like to.”

Lestrade peeled a blob of blue tack off the wall and handed it to him. He took the picture out of his wallet and, very carefully, almost reverently, attached it to the wall. He picked up one of the discarded pens and in a careful hand wrote ‘Harry Watson’ under the picture of his sister. He stood back to examine his handiwork and Lestrade nodded approvingly.

It didn’t feel as hopeless as he thought it would.

 

~

 

The sound files were easy to get hold of and delightfully surprising. Contrary to popular opinion Sherlock didn’t mind being wrong so long as the right answer was something far more intriguing.

He immediately set out to find John. Again, easy, it was utterly predictable that Lestrade would want to introduce himself properly after the exchange over the video screen and of course would take John to the memorial wall. Unfortunately, he was unable to get there without first bumping into Sally Donovan. Her charming self as usual, Sally didn’t let him pass without a few choice words. Words that revealed she had spoken to John. Dammit, what had she said? More importantly, how had John taken it?

He was loath to use any of his brother’s words but he couldn’t help observing that clean, shaven and dressed in those horrible scrubs, John did look a lot tamer. All the doctor needed was a haircut and the transformation into little tin soldier would be complete. The man was even standing to attention, nearly shoulder to shoulder with a far more relaxed Lestrade, staring at a picture of a woman that had clearly only just been added to the wall. Judging by the woman’s chin and eye shape she was a relative of John’s, most likely a sister. The name written underneath would seem to support that conclusion.

As he approached neither of the other men looked up. John had an odd expression on his face. He looked almost strangely pleased. That wasn’t right, was it? Sherlock moved closer to get a better look and John seemed to very suddenly become aware of his presence. As the doctor’s head snapped towards him, John’s expressions did that slideshow thing Sherlock was beginning to decide he liked very much. This time the order went; panic, surprise, then, for a period so brief he might have doubted it occurred if he ever doubted himself, John’s face seemed to simply light up before finally settling on annoyed.

Lestrade started to greet him but he cut across, uninterested, and focused entirely on John.

“I accessed the messages on the hard drive.”

At the exact same time as John asked, “Where have you been?”

Sherlock bristled at John’s demanding tone but was placated when John’s face slideshowed again through shock, confusion, then most promisingly, intrigue.

“You’ve already gotten into the hard drive?”

Sherlock’s eyes darted all over John’s face, suddenly glad that the beard was gone because it revealed more of his expression. The way curiosity was fighting with continued annoyance across it now was far more pleasing to observe than any amount of wildness the hair had given him.

“Yes.”

“So…” Curiosity won and completely took over his features. “Was there a message from the wife?”

Sherlock grinned. “Better. Two.”

John’s eyes widened. The other man was genuinely engrossed in his case. Perfect.

“Two?”

“Come on, I’ll play them to you.”

The corners of John’s mouth tugged into a half smile and Sherlock turned to stride back towards his lab, trusting that the other man would follow.

“Hey, Sherlock!”

Very unwillingly Sherlock stopped and turned back towards Lestrade.

“Yes, what?”

Lestrade grinned at him. “Don’t lock the man up in your lab all day. Give him a tour, will you?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes but couldn’t deny the advice was sensible. The quicker John became accustomed to the Enclave the more useful an assistant he would be. Sherlock nodded and moved to go again.

“Oh and, John.”

Sherlock wanted to ignore him but John turned towards Lestrade.

“You should really come to the five-a-side game on Thursday. It’s MET verses MI5 in the hall in Green B. We could do with a few more fans on our side. You’ll be loose by then, won’t you?”

For a moment John looked lost. Sherlock instinctively took a step towards him then wondered why he had done it.

“I don’t even know what day it is today,” John said, sounding like he was confessing something shameful.

Lestrade gave him a reassuring smile. “It’s Sunday.”

John nodded as if this was vital information he was taking in. “Yeah, sure.”

Lestrade grinned. Sherlock reached towards John and, very lightly, put a hand on his back to encourage him to move. John complied immediately but Sherlock kept his hand there until they got to the lab.

Once they had crossed the threshold and he had shut the door behind them he dashed straight over to his laptop to pull up the sound files. John hovered by the door gazing around at the room. Sherlock was pleased to note the doctor didn’t look overawed by the variety of lab equipment and experiments but cast a calm, yet impressed, trained eye over them.

Sherlock hit play on the relevant files and John walked over to listen attentively. Once the two messages had finished playing John turned a gaping expression up towards him.

“So,” John said, “he did tell her he was away on a conference.”

“But she knew he wasn’t,” Sherlock said encouragingly.

John’s eyes left his as the other man thought it through. “But if he never got those messages he couldn’t have known she knew about the affair.”

“So he had no reason to hire someone to kill her.”

“So who did?”

“She did.”

John turned an inquisitive expression towards him and Sherlock found he got a little thrill from stepping forward and explaining.

“The assassin wasn’t meant for her, it was meant for her sister.” He started pacing back and forth, waving his hands for emphasis. “You heard the messages, that thick Scottish brogue of hers. It would have been easy for anyone to mix up verbal instructions, especially someone for whom English is a second language, like our assassin. He gets the sister’s address mixed up with the collection address, sees her, thinks she’s the target as they look similar enough at first glance and kills her. Now, if the police had been less incompetent and _told_ me her accent was that much thicker than her sister’s I could have solved this within five minutes.”

 _And I never would have gone to that office yesterday to find the messages_ , he thought as he turned back towards John. _I never would have met you and you wouldn’t be standing there looking at me as if I was the most wonderful thing in the world, and that would be a great shame. So maybe the general incompetence of the police force wasn’t entirely a bad thing_.

“That was amazing,” John shook his head. “I don’t know how you… but that was brilliant.” He turned to wave a hand towards the laptop. “You just… solved it.”

The last two words were said in a strangely flat tone and as he spoke John’s face seemed to shut down.

Once again Sherlock found himself taking a step towards the doctor without really meaning to, moving into the other man’s personal space until they were separated by a few inches. John gazed up at him almost warily. He frowned down at him.

“What?”

“What do you do now?”

Sherlock tilted his head in a silent request to explain.

“You can’t arrest anyone,” John said softly, his eyes never leaving Sherlock’s. “You can’t inform the police. You can’t tell the guy you know he’s innocent. It’s just… done.”

He sounded disappointed.

“I know,” Sherlock said. “You know. That’s enough.”

“What do you do here?” John asked again earnestly, stepping back and gesturing to the whole room.

“Research.”

He wheeled away and started talking about his various studies, showing off the experiments, explaining his results and listing all the plans he had for future tests. John followed him with wide eyes, looking fascinated by it all and occasionally asking questions. Sherlock found he did have to occasionally berate the doctor for his idiocy but not as often as he did with other people and John took it with much more grace than anyone else ever had. At one point when Sherlock was throwing his hands up in almost despair over the true stupidity of a query he spotted a slight smile creeping over John’s lips. The other man was teasing him. Aside from Mycroft no one had ever teased him. People had taunted, mocked and abused him, but good natured teasing, never. He hadn’t been certain how to respond so he had glared at John and said that if it was so amusing he wouldn’t bother.

John chuckled and then, just as he had in reception, looked shocked at the sound. He had found it impossible to resist a grin and John had returned it with a smile. It was all free, easy and absolutely wonderful. Outside of a case he had never been so happy.

“You must get bored, though,” John said and Sherlock took a moment to marvel at how this man who he had met less than twenty-four hours before knew him so well. “Without those exciting adventures of yours.”

Sherlock wrinkled his nose. “Adventures?”

“The ones you were telling me about. Like the one where the gardener found that buried treasure and then the maid double crossed him.” John looked positively animated “Or the one where the stepfather was using a snake as a murder weapon.”

“Those were cases solved with precise analytical reasoning.” Sherlock corrected him with a disgruntled sniff. “Not ‘Adventures’.”

John raised his eyebrows. “All right, without those exciting analytical cases of yours. You’ve solved all your past cases by now, haven’t you?”

Sherlock thought a moment. “Most of them. Although there was one case just before the Event. I wasn’t directly involved, although I’m sure Lestrade was on the verge of calling me. Three serial suicides, you probably saw it in the newspapers.”

John shrugged. “A lot has happened between then and now. I can’t say I remember.”

“Fascinating case. But I don’t see ever getting to the bottom of it.”

It still annoyed him. He had always thought that if he could have seen one more body…

John didn’t say anything but smiled at him in a way that made him think the other man understood somehow. Commiserated even. Cared about that black spot on his record in the same way that he did. It was… astonishing.

“But you still get bored,” said John.

“Yes,” Sherlock said with a sigh. “Continuously.”

“Which is why you go outside,” John rolled his eyes. “As insane as that is.”

“Yes,” said Sherlock. “But you won’t have permission to go outside for some time yet, so we’ll have to content ourselves with the studies in here.”

John looked shocked. “You want me to help you?”

“Of course. I need an assistant and no one else will work with me.”

And besides, he wanted to keep an eye on John, keep him close, make him smile, make him laugh, make his face do the slideshow thing again. He wanted to know why John was so interested in his past cases, how John had managed to connect with him so quickly, and most of all he wanted to know why he wanted to do and know all that.

“Let’s start with lunch.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope to get the next part up Monday. [The Kelvedon Hatch Secret Nuclear Bunker](http://www.secretnuclearbunker.com/) is a real place and tourist attraction. The many signs helpfully pointing the way to the ‘Secret Nuclear Bunker’ that can be found in the area never fail to amuse. Strangely enough I can’t find a record on how long the inhabitants were expected to survive after a full nuclear attack so am only going on what someone once told me on a visit many years ago. If you know the truth don’t hesitate to correct me.


	4. Chapter 4

It wasn’t real, it couldn’t possibly be real. He had to be dreaming or hallucinating because none of this could logically be happening.

Take lunch for example; chicken chow mein. He _loved_ chicken chow mein. It was his favourite meal ever. His mum used to make it from scratch for his birthday every year and he used to look forward to it just as much as the presents and the cake. He had resigned himself to never being able to taste it again and now it was being handed to him literally on a plate.

He stopped and stared at it, unable to take it in, until Sherlock actually asked if he didn’t like it. Didn’t like it? Why would that make any difference? Yesterday the entirety of his diet had consisted of plain packet noodles, a cereal bar and two cups of tea, why on earth would whether he liked something alter whether he would eat it or not when the only other option was starvation. Besides it was _Chicken Chow Mein_.

But it was more than that that had him questioning reality. There was also milk. Not long life, tinned or powdered; fresh chilled semi skimmed actual real milk in a jug. Such things just weren’t possible anymore. Then Sherlock told him the Enclave had their own herd of cows in the agriculture zone. And chickens. And sheep. But not bees because Sherlock hadn’t managed to clone them yet. It was mad.

And finally there was Sherlock. If anything was an argument for the fictional state of things, then Sherlock was.

The other man chatted through lunch, talking about the Enclave and the people while gesticulating with his fork, then listened attentively when he said anything as if anything he had to say was vital to the continued survival of humanity. Sherlock was witty, sharp, hugely intelligent and actually seemed to want to spend time with him. Such creatures didn’t exist.

“This isn’t real,” he said. “Chicken chow mein, milk, cows, you. I’m dreaming, aren’t I?”

To his surprise Sherlock didn’t laugh or act like he was mad but actually seemed to give it a great deal of thought.

“No,” the other man finally said, having apparently weighed up the evidence and come to a final conclusion.

He laughed, because how could you argue with that?

“Of course,” he said, looking Sherlock up and down. “I don’t have a good enough imagination to come up with you.”

Still, the tour Sherlock gave him after a long lunch with apple crumble and custard (apple crumble and actual custard!) for dessert and three very milky cups of tea to follow did nothing to help cement the place as reality.

He was shown the toilets (no more buckets!), the shower rooms (all that hot water every single day?), the break rooms (with actual working gaming consoles), the labs, the infirmary and the security offices. He was introduced to more people than he could remember and waved in the vague direction of how to get to the other zones when he was out of quarantine.

When Sherlock spoke about green zone - which as far as John could gather was the main civilian zone and was split into five sub zones – he couldn’t quite take in the sheer amount of out-of-hours activities that took place in the main halls there. Everything from the aforementioned five-a-side football tournament to concerts, art classes and yoga seemed to be available. Although the derisive tone Sherlock used when he talked about them left John with the suspicion he would be severely looked down upon if he took advantage of any of it.

The library was spoken of with more enthusiasm with Sherlock explaining eagerly how to arrange for books to be brought into blue zone over the next couple of days. How he could get hold of a portable DVD player was also mentioned, should he want to watch some old television.

By that point he was almost numb from culture shock. The effort to rearrange his mind-set from one where survival took up every hour of the day to one where spare minutes could be filled with yoga and old episodes of _Fawlty Towers_ was so unnerving he nearly missed it when Sherlock indicated his room.

Blinking back into awareness he realised Sherlock was staring at him expectantly so he opened the door. Sherlock instantly sucked in a breath. Flicking on the light switch by the door he examined the room, searching for what could have caused such a reaction.

It was small, cramped, and was almost entirely taken up with a large bed, at least a single and a half. There was just about enough room for the two of them to stand in the gap between the door and the bed and even that was only because the door swung outwards. The walls were beige and the sheets were white and so institutional it was almost frightening. There was a laundry basket at the end of the bed, filling up the small space there, and there seemed to be some kind of drawer under the bed.

Sherlock glared at the bed as if it had personally insulted him.

“Are all the rooms like this?” John asked, simply for something to say.

“Just the temporary ones,” Sherlock said, although growled might have been a better description. “Bigger bed to keep the VIPs as ‘comfortable as possible’,” the contempt placed on those three words practically oozed, “if they have to stay here.”

“Oh. Does that mean I’ll be moved in a few days?”

Sherlock spun on his heel and marched out with a backwards cry of, “Not if I have anything to say about it,” before shutting the door behind him.

He sat on the bed. It was actually pretty comfortable. He had certainly slept in worse places. He ran his hands over the covers and revelled in how nice it would feel to sleep on clean sheets again as a way of crushing down the growing terror that if this actually was all real then he had no idea what he was supposed to do with himself.

As a distraction he bent down to pry the drawer under the bed open then kicked it open the rest of the way. It was full of clothes. He pulled out a few items experimentally. Clothes in his size. He tried to appreciate the effort that had been made for his sake but couldn’t help but be a little disturbed by it. There were a variety of plain shirts and t-shirts, simple dark trousers, jogging bottoms, underwear, socks, shoes and a few jumpers. Near the bottom he also found a few items of his own, obviously taken from his bag, cleaned and repaired. Not everything was there but he was glad to see his beige jumper and his hoodie had survived the cull. He was, however, disappointed not to see his army boots there. Those boots had kept him in good stead for a long time, he hoped they would show up eventually.

There were also his ID tags on their chain, although the keys were missing. He stared at them for a while, wondering whether to put them on or not. It really boiled down to whether he a soldier anymore. And if not, what was he? Sherlock seemed to think he was a lab assistant, while Sherlock’s brother had been determined he should be a doctor. Neither required dog tags.

In the end he left them there and pulled out a shirt, trousers, socks and shoes. After he had changed he sat back down on the bed and stared at the wall.

What now?

Was Sherlock going to come back? Was he supposed to meet him back at the lab? Maybe he was supposed to stay put, in which case had he been locked in?

Telling himself fiercely that he wasn’t paranoid he was just checking, he tried the door. It swung open easily. He shut it and sat back down on the bed then jumped up again to open it a crack. Feeling a bit of an idiot but better for it anyway, he dropped back on the bed and slumped backwards. It really was quite comfy.

He pushed himself so he was laying full length on top of the covers with his head on the pillow and tried not to think too much. He screwed his eyes shut and attempted to drown out all the fears of being boxed in, dressed up, picked up and forced into whatever plans the Holmes brothers had in mind for him.

 

~

 

It shouldn’t have been surprising to find John asleep when he got back to John’s room. But then the ex-army doctor seemed to have developed a habit of surprising him.

He hadn’t left the doctor alone for very long. He had been in the security office trying to annoy Donovan until she relented and let him in on the security arrangements Mycroft had set up for John. That had taken less than half an hour – he was well practised in annoying Donovan – and a further fifteen minutes to sort out the ridiculous notion that John be quartered anywhere he couldn’t get to him at a moment’s notice. Apparently, that was all the time the doctor needed to get changed – John seemed to have been provided with those awful generic clothes they had in bulk down in storage, he was going to have to sort that out as well – and fall asleep on the bed.

Sherlock stopped in the doorway, unable to draw his eyes away.

John was lying on his back, his arms at his sides with his fingers slightly drawn in towards his palms. His head rested on the pillow and was tilted towards the door.

Sherlock found himself drawn towards John’s face. He wanted to reach out and feel the changes sleep made to the lines and contours that made up the other man’s features. He wanted to capture John’s expression, how not even sleep could bring complete peace to it. He wanted to fetch a notebook from his lab to write it all down, to categorise and own it all. He was halfway out to door to do just that when Mycroft’s words crossed his mind.

 _Very attached, very quickly_.

Shaking some sense into himself, he left the doctor to catch up on some no doubt much needed sleep and went back to his lab. He felt energised for some strange reason and ever so slightly light-headed. He wondered if this was what people referred to as having a skip in their step, although the last thing he wanted to do was skip. What he needed to do right now was put all this energy to more productive use.

When he got back to his laboratory he shut the door firmly behind him, sat down at the desktop computer and immediately pulled up the London Report.

This was Mycroft’s real reason for letting him go into to city whenever the walls got too oppressing; cuttings and samples were just excuses. The truth was there was no one alive who knew this city better than he did and no one better qualified to keep track of how it was constantly changing.

It was a layered map of the city showing the areas of destruction, population centres and known collector hotspots. Marked very carefully were the locations of warehouses and storage facilities along with what they contained and who knew about them. Hospitals, schools and universities had their markers with special notes as to people of interest who might still be alive. The networks of survivor groups and gangs were mapped out like a spider web, who was working with whom and how the resources were spread. If John hadn’t been so successful at slipping under the net he would have been marked down as ‘person of interest’ cross referenced with ‘resources: medical care’.

The collector activity was marked in red with their known routes highlighted and a red flag where they caught a victim. The route taken by any escapees was marked with red crosses. There were notes and graphs comparing how many collectors were sent in, how many people they collected, what distance they travelled, information of their vehicles, analysis of what they said, reaction they received, amount of violence used and details of any conflict between collectors.

It was all Sherlock’s work. Mycroft had a larger map, covering the whole country which he filled in with details from the military reconnaissance teams and contact with other outposts up and down the country but there was no place better mapped than London. Mycroft had always called London the battlefield; well these were the battle plans.

Sherlock entered in the facts about his trip out. Not just the encounter with the collectors but every single observation he had made on his way to the West End, at Baker Street Station and even what he had noticed on their way back to the Enclave. He could take one look down any street and tell the hundred things that had happened to it since his last visit. It disturbed him that despite all his scrutiny and all his contacts he hadn’t known that John existed in the city. That seemed like a hugely important thing to miss and he couldn’t help wondering what else was slipping under his radar. Especially considering that John had clearly attracted the attention of someone else.

Those collectors had been looking for someone in that office building. The office had been untouched, there had been no signs that anyone had been there before John arrived, let alone living there or visiting regularly. The collectors could only have been looking for someone who had been there at that moment and they hadn’t been interested in him. Unless there had been somebody else who was very good at hiding – and they would have had to have been incredibly good to have avoided Sherlock’s attention – the only person they could possibly be after had been John.

The main questions were how did they know John would be there, and did they just want him because he was a doctor or was it personal?

Sherlock set about inputting the descriptions of the collectors into the report so he could search for other instances involving the same group and find out where they came from. In the morning, when John got up, he could ask him some questions. But first he wanted to find out the answers.

 

~

 

John stared at the ceiling of the infirmary as the IV in his arm restored some much needed nutrients.

He didn’t know what time it was although he suspected enough had passed for it to count as early morning rather than middle of the night.

He didn’t know what tests Helen was running, he hadn’t really been paying attention and hadn’t even noticed the medical student had been successfully roused from her bed until she started taking a blood sample.

He didn’t know who had found him hunched over the toilets shaking like a building in an earthquake and too weak to move. Nor was he too sure who had practically carried him to the infirmary.

What he did know was the nightmare. It was, after all, the same nightmare he had night after night after night. He had been in Chelmsford this time but sometimes he was in London or Helmand or think he was in one place but it would look like one of the others. Usually he was alone, although never actually alone because he was always being watched, surrounded by enemies, some malevolent force that meant him harm. Sometimes he would see them in the corner of his eye or just around the bend but no matter how much he ran he could never catch up with them. And he would scramble through the ditches – because there were always ditches no matter where he was supposed to be or what place it looked like – having to avoid rubble and bodies and the hidden explosives that the enemy had planted in his way and constantly went off around him, ringing in his ears until he finally stepped on one and it threw him back into consciousness.

This time, however, while he had been chasing one of the shadows they had stepped on the mine instead of him. But instead of exploding they had stood there while they burnt, their skin blackening and curling up. He had run away only to encounter another one, just standing there on fire, and another, and another, and then there had been one that looked like his sister, another like his father, another like Sherlock, another like his mother who had stared at him blankly as her skin turned to crisp-

At which point he had woken up with a terrified yell and had only just made it to the bathroom before he threw up the entire contents of his stomach and what felt like more besides. This, Helen had told him, was a particularly bad thing when he was already malnourished and dehydrated to begin with. As if he didn’t know that.

Now, apparently, Helen – who had taken the time to mention she had lost her father, brothers and cousins, had been in a windowless room at the university with her boyfriend and who thought the Event might have been caused by sunspots - was trying to figure out whether he had had a reaction to the Lorimpoxate or whether it had just been him having a ‘delicate tummy’. He really was going to sort out her bedside manner.

He couldn’t fight the terrifying relief that this had happened while he was here instead of outside. If he had had that dream and chucked up his guts in some random tower block or one of his locked up bolt holes no one would have been there to rescue him. He would have been stuck there, too weak to do anything other than collapse in his own sick. He would have died and that would have been it. Nobody would know about it, nobody would care, nobody would even bury his body. He could almost picture in his mind’s eye his corpse rotting in an abandoned building the same way he had sometimes thought it would do in the Afghan wilderness. The most anyone would do if they were really, really nice, would be to put an X on the door so that everyone would know to stay away. A lot of people didn’t even get that.

What if it happened again? What if it wasn’t worth their while to keep him ‘alive and well’ anymore? What if they decided to chuck him out onto the streets? He wouldn’t even get an X…

John sat up sharply as two men crashed through the infirmary doors pushing a gurney between them. On it was a young soldier covered with blood and bandages. It looked like a chest wound.

Helen barely managed to get out, “What are you-“

Before being interrupted by, “Gunfight on the M25, this guy needs some serious help.”

“It’s against procedure-“

“Fuck procedure! We’ve got six guys injured and a van full of civilians coming in behind us, now are you going to help or not?”

“Mr Wearing should-“

“Well go get him!”

He removed the IV from his hand with a practiced manoeuvre and jumped from the bed, reaching instinctively for the boxes of gloves.

“Helen, get me a CBC, an intubation kit and,” he checked the tags around the injured man’s – Private Martin Lewis - neck, “six units of A positive. You,” he pointed to the soldier who hadn’t been shouting, “go fetch Mr Wearing and any other doctors, nurses or vaguely medical related personnel you’ve got around here. If you don’t know where he is then grab someone else to do it for you. Go!” The soldier fled. “You, where are the other wounded?”

“Loading bay going through decon.”

“Get them in here, I want everyone in one place instead of having to run all over every time someone takes a dive. What sort of injuries are we talking about here, mainly GSW’s?”

“Gunshot wounds and trauma.”

“Sounds like my area of expertise.”

Helen handed him the intubation kit.

“Thanks. We need to prep him for emergency surgery.”

Helen immediately paled. “Shouldn’t we wait for Mr Wearing?”

“He needs our help right now. You do know how to prep a patient for surgery, don’t you?”

Helen shook her head.

“OK, you watch carefully while I intubate him and then you need to start some IVs. He needs saline, morphine and Lactated Ringer’s solution, you got that?”

Helen nodded weakly. John stepped forward so she had to look him straight in the eyes.

“We can do this, do you hear me? Helen?” She nodded. “What did I just say?”

“We can do this.”

“Good, remember that because I may test you later. Now watch me.”

No sooner had he got his first patient intubated than his second patient was barrelled through the door with a shout of,

“I think he’s going into shock.”

John let his training take over completely, moving methodically from one patient to another as they came in, assessing wounds and giving orders to whoever happened to be closest. By the time the other doctors showed up he had more soldiers doing first aid under shouted instruction and running errands than he did patients. He had also stabilised all six patients, – although he wanted to get Corporal Hedgely in surgery as soon as possible to rescue what he could of the soldier’s arm – ordered x-rays, changed out of his pyjamas and into a set of scrubs, and persuaded Helen that she too could shout at soldiers while he was in surgery.

Mr Wearing, one of the surgeons, introduced himself by joining John as he was scrubbing up for surgery and saying,

“Doctor John Watson, I take it? Tom Wearing. We weren’t expecting to meet you for a couple of days yet.”

“What can I say?” John responded. “I just couldn’t wait.”

“Good man. Now you’re with us we can finally field a team for the five-a-side football tournament.”

Tom turned out to be a very talented orthopaedic surgeon with a laid back attitude - which John liked - and a mouth that never stopped moving - which John wasn’t too keen on. He was the sort of man who could ask for more sutures without ever breaking his flow in telling constant anecdotes about his medical practice, including the time he had almost amputated the wrong leg after a paperwork mix up.

After an hour John had found out Tom had been in surgery with Jack Phillips, the Enclave’s other surgeon, at the time of the Event. He had a wife and two daughters, who had all died, and a two year old grandson who hadn’t and was apparently doing marvellously at the Enclave’s crèche. He reckoned the Event was caused by solar flares interacting with mobile phone signals. He and Jack had worked with the military before and been recruited almost immediately to the Enclave. They had expected more doctors but due to ‘this and that’ no more had materialised. Tom was also very keen on football and had great plans for when he was finally allowed to form a team from the medical staff and, inevitably, lead them to victory.

If the other surgeon wasn’t doing such amazing work in front of his eyes, John would have been very tempted to sew Tom’s mouth shut.

Nevertheless he was relieved when Helen showed up with a health drink, (“You still need to keep your strength up,”) an update on the other patients, (the X-rays were back and Corporal Peterson’s leg was definitely broken but Captain Green’s ribs were merely bruised. Private French had nothing worse than concussion, Lance Corporal Smith had had to be stitched up twice having pulled the first lot out within minutes, and Mr Phillips had taken Corporal Hedgely into surgery) a warning that the civilians were coming in (there were sixteen of them, including five children) and a sharp jab to the neck.

“What the-“

“Your test results came back as well,” Helen said. “No sign of an allergic reaction to the Lorimpoxate so it’s okay for you to have the second injection. One more in twenty-four hours’ time and you’ll be all clear.”

“Really need to work on her bedside manner,” John said to Tom after Helen had gone.

“Really?” Tom said. “I’ve always found her charming.”

“Well you would.”

“What was that?”

“I need another swab.”

Just over half an hour later John was able to leave Tom to finish up and go check on the civilians. Aside from one panic induced asthma attack and the usual levels of malnutrition there was nothing too severe wrong with them. This turned out to be thanks to the efforts of Doctor Alice Baker – not a real doctor at all but a third year biology student with first aid training who had been acting as one for the group. John suspected she would be immediately assigned to medical training, which was going to be hell since Helen and she had already gotten into a blazing row when the former tried to disinfect her wounds – and a colonel who had organised their defence and ridden with them through a convoluted escape route of his own planning. Every person John spoke to had high praise for the man. How he had reacted so quickly and calmed everyone down. How he had carried an injured soldier over his shoulder to cover. How he had protected the children with his own body. How he had taken a bullet to the arm and still kept firing out the window as if he hadn’t even noticed it. This story in particular was told to him in great detail with excessive hand gestures and sound effects by two seven year old boys. John was almost looking forward to meeting him.

Just as he was finishing off splinting two broken fingers, and the adrenaline that had been running wild through his system for the past few hours was starting to tail off, he got the opportunity.

A tall, muscular man with short blond hair, a dark scar that ran all the way from his left eye to the edge of his square chin and a makeshift bandage on his arm that was seeping blood entered, pursued by both Holmes brothers.

“What kind of mud was on the tyres?” Sherlock was asking. “Did you see anything in it, any grass or leaves?”

“Exactly which direction did they head in when they left?” the older Holmes asked.

“I told you,” said the colonel obviously working hard to keep his cool but succeeding for the moment. “They came from the south. The information you gave me was just wrong. We came via junction twenty-nine to avoid the collectors at South Weald, so how come there are two groups within four miles of each other?”

John swiftly intercepted his patient’s non-injured hand as she went to pick at the medical tape, told her very firmly to leave it alone, made sure to warn a nurse to keep an eye on her, and then made his way over to the argument.

“But which direction were they heading in?”

“How did they align their vehicles when they made the barricade?”

The elder Holmes’ tone was imperious and cold while Sherlock’s was inquisitive and almost excited. Neither of them glanced at John as he approached. The colonel gave him a slightly confused look then offered him his arm with a small smile and an eye roll that was definitely directed at the other two men rather than him.

“I had to come through bloody Becontree,” The colonel turned his attention back to his interrogators as John started to unravel the strip of cloth that had been used as a bandage, “and I can tell you, it wasn’t pretty.”

As John started to get the colonel to shrug off his jacket the man sighed tiredly. The elder Holmes stepped forward and lowered his voice.

“If there’s been a build-up in collector activity to the east of London,” John tried to ease the ripped sleeve off the colonel’s injured arm but found Holmes in the way, “we must know specifics-“

Badgering he could cope with, getting in the way was the final straw.

“Look, bugger off, you two,” he said, waving Sherlock and his brother away. “Can’t you see this man’s injured?” Both Holmes’ opened their mouths. “You can debrief him fully later but right now if you’re not wounded then you can either start rolling bandages or get the hell out of my infirmary.”

All four Holmes eyebrows shot up and John almost thought he saw a look of stunned approval cross both their faces but it was gone so swiftly he couldn’t be sure. Either way the two men left very quickly.

The colonel beamed at him. “I’m impressed, how did you manage that?”

John wasn’t entirely sure. He had expected a bit more of a fight, particularly after Holmes’ ‘won’t let anyone interfere with my goals’ speech. So he shrugged and said, “Let’s have a look at your arm, shall we?”

The colonel finished peeling off his jacket and sat down. “I haven’t seen you here before, are you new?”

“Just got here yesterday,” John said pulling on a fresh pair of gloves. “Doctor John Watson.”

“Watson?”

The colonel sounded confused but when John looked up the other man was grinning.

“I’m Seb.”

“I’ve heard a lot about you,” John said.

The grin seemed to flag a little. “All lies.”

“They called you a hero.”

The grin came back with a vengeance. “Definitely all lies.”

A smile tugged at the corner of John’s mouth. After Tom Wearing’s endless bragging, Seb was almost refreshing.

He turned his attention back to the wound. “This is going to need stitches and I’m afraid it will scar. Although it won’t be quite as impressive as…” John gestured in the general direction of his cheek.

Seb reached up to touch his scar. “Oh, this. Would you believe me if I said I got it off a tiger in India?”

“Depends,” said John, torn between genuine curiosity and wariness that he had thought too soon about the bragging. “Did you?”

Seb grinned again. “Yeah, but it was an accident. I was about six and the tiger was only four months old and in a wildlife sanctuary. Mum and dad used to travel a lot, that’s why I joined the army.” He cringed. “Why am I telling you all this, you don’t want my life story.”

“No, it’s fine,” said John, meaning it. He reached for the saline. “Joined the army to travel the world, makes perfect sense. This won’t hurt a bit.”

Seb remained perfectly still as he cleaned the wound then, once John was satisfied and ready to move onto the anaesthetic, asked, “Same reason you joined?”

John nodded but didn’t raise his eyes from what he was doing. “Who’d want to be stuck in a dreary hospital in London when you could be out there doing something much more exciting?”

“Exactly. So where did you go?”

“I was in Afghanistan for a while before I got shot.”

“I did a tour in Afganistan. And two in Iraq. Sierra Leone, Georgia, Ethiopia.”

John let out a low whistle. “Been all over then?”

“Loved it. Doing my bit in defence of Queen and country? It’s what I live for. Helping these people out today was a taste of the old magic, I can tell you.”

The enthusiasm in Seb’s voice was completely contrary to the stillness with which the other man held himself. Still, at least that made giving the many little anaesthetic injections easier.

“Being shut up in here isn’t good for my constitution. Not with everything that’s going on out there. That’s where the real need is. Well you’d know. Living on the streets, were you? Did Sherlock find you?”

Seb seemed to understand it all much better than Sally with her ‘did he follow you home’. “I’m one of his strays, apparently.”

“Yeah, he brings people in now and then. Only people he can use, doesn’t care about the rest. I mean you’re a doctor right, who’s to say you couldn’t have been more useful to the people out there than tucked away for the toffs in here?” Seb cringed again. “Sorry, my mouth’s running away with me today. I shouldn’t be complaining; I hear you did a damn fine job on my men in here. How’s Lewis?”

“He’ll be fine,” said John, glad for the change of subject. “But I don’t see Hedgely picking up a weapon again.”

“Damn it. Well at least we didn’t lose anyone.”

“How does that feel?” he asked, testing the wound with a light jab of the needle.

“Can barely feel it.”

He had heard that plenty of times before from career soldiers who had gone on to yelp in pain the instant John had started stitching. Seb, however, proved to be the exception and didn’t even flinch when John inserted the needle.

“What were you doing anyway?” John asked, curiously, during a pause between stitches while he injected more anaesthetic, just in case.

He had assumed that the Enclave had shut themselves in for the long haul. He couldn’t imagine what sorts of missions whole teams of soldiers were being sent out for. Going up against collectors maybe if the gunfight was anything to go by.

Seb looked serious “Infiltrating an enemy stronghold.” Then broke out into one of his shark like grins. “University of Essex.”

John huffed a half chuckle.

“Ever been there?”

“’Fraid not,” said John.

“Absolute maze, half underground with corridors that go on forever, no wonder so many people survived there. When news got out that a group had actually set up residence there we were sent to bring them back. Put all the brains in one place and see what clever things they come up with.”

 _Only people he can use_.

John tied the final knot. “Done.”

Seb lifted his arm to examine the wound and flexed his fingers. “Thanks, Doc. Bet you’re going to tell me I need to rest it now.”

John smiled. “Would it work?”

Seb laughed. “I guess it would have to. Can I see my men now?”

“Sure, I’ll show you.”


	5. Chapter 5

No, no, no, no, no! It didn’t make sense. Why didn’t it make sense? He couldn’t be mistaken; he was never mistaken. He had looked at the report only last night, had been in London only the day before, he couldn’t have missed so much.

The retrieval team had had explicit instructions with a route carefully mapped out to avoid the collector hotspots. It wasn’t as if there were many in that area after all. The whole of the region north east of London was pockmarked with so many fallen planes that it should have been more difficult to navigate craters than inhabitants. There was the group at South Weald, yes, but why would they go out of their way to risk an attack four miles south of their base? Especially on a group so obviously both heavily armed and merely passing through.

There was another group further south near Dartford – commonly referred to as the River Trolls – but they had even less reason to attack the team. There were a mere eleven miles between these two groups already and every now and then he would hear a story of a conflict the two groups. There simply was not enough room for a third group in that area. Not enough space and not enough prey.

So who had attacked the team? The colonel who had brought the new arrivals in was worse than useless. He had failed to picked up on any of the thousands of clues that would have told Sherlock where the attackers had come from, where they were going to and whether they had just been passing through or whether they had been waiting for the team. Sherlock had wanted to interrogate all the witnesses immediately but after John’s outburst – which was completely Mycroft’s fault for getting in the way, so he didn’t see why he had to suffer for it – he was banned from the Infirmary and had to wait for each person to be discharged before he could pounce on them. It turned out to be wasted effort as each person was more oblivious than the last.

By early afternoon he managed to sneak into the Infirmary to see the soldiers. John had fallen asleep, stretched out on one of the beds. It was the same sort of exhausted doze he had witnessed the day before so he barely wasted more than a few minutes observing it.

The idiot surgeons Mycroft had only recruited because all the doctors who had been in government employ had insisted on large windows in their offices and therefore died in the Event, were busy and that only left Helen Webber who was too in awe of him to be any kind of obstacle. It took him a couple of hours to interview all the soldiers fully - he had to wake two of them up which was highly inconvenient – but eventually he managed to get every single detail they had to offer. It wasn’t enough. The ignoramuses had missed almost everything of significance. He would just have to go to the scene of the crime and see for himself.

Another couple of hours were wasted making all the arrangements while at the same time avoiding Mycroft. There was no way he could walk all the way to junction twenty-nine so he had to get hold of a vehicle which took a bit of negotiation. Eventually he was able to make his way back to the Infirmary and wake John up by dropping a package into his lap.

“Eat this,” he said as the doctor woke up with a jolt. “Then change into this,” he dropped the other, larger, bag he was holding onto the floor. “Then we need to go, hurry up.”

Despite blinking at him sluggishly John reacted quickly enough to grab the curtain that surrounded the bed as Sherlock tried to close it to give John some privacy.

“Wait, what?”

“We need to go to the crime scene,” Sherlock said. “There should be enough time to get there, look around, then get back while there’s still sunlight but only if you hurry up.”

John frowned in confusion. “What time is it?”

“Five PM.”

“Five o’clock?” John gazed wildly around the Infirmary in horror. “I told Helen to wake me at-“ His eyes finally settled on the bed next to his where Helen Webber was curled up, asleep. “Oh.”

Sherlock tugged at the curtain again. John held on firmly and turned back towards him.

“What crime scene, what are you talking about?”

Sherlock waved an arm to generally indicate the injured soldiers around them. “The ambush site. I want to find out where the people who attacked the team came from.”

The confusion on John’s face melted away as something like intrigue lit up in his eyes.

“You want me to come with you?”

“Of course,” said Sherlock, frowning. “You need to get changed.”

John didn’t react as Sherlock pulled the curtains closed but based on the sounds of fabric rustling and zips being pulled the doctor moved very quickly after that.

After a short while there was a brief pause where Sherlock almost pulled open the curtain to see what the holdup was but resisted because based on what he had heard John would not be fully dressed. Then he almost pulled the curtain open anyway out of curiosity but was interrupted by John saying in almost a dazed way,

“You found my boots.”

Sherlock frowned at that. Of course he had found John’s boots. The shoes he had discovered in John’s room had been completely unacceptable for crime scene investigation.

John pulled the curtain open again. Back in his army boots, hoodie and a dark jacket the doctor looked ready for action, exactly what Sherlock wanted from him. Except he was also wearing a regretful expression and not meeting Sherlock’s eyes.

“I can’t just leave, Sherlock. I have patients.”

Sherlock shook his head confidently. “They don’t need you like I do.”

John finally looked up at him and raised his eyebrows. “No?”

“They just need a doctor. I need _you_.”

John didn’t seem to be aware of the smile tugging at the corner of his mouth as he sighed exasperatingly and rolled his eyes.

“You should eat the sandwich,” Sherlock told him. “You’re suffering from malnutrition which would only have been exacerbated by you being sick this morning and barely eating anything all day. It would be inconvenient for you to pass out while we’re there.”

John tilted his head to one side. “What makes you think I’m coming with you?”

Sherlock shrugged as if it was no matter. “Because it could be dangerous and you don’t back away from danger. If you were that sort of person you would have fled to the countryside months ago. Either that or shot yourself; you had the means at your disposal. And yet here you are.”

He turned and marched towards the Infirmary door without a second’s doubt that he would soon be followed. He wasn’t wrong, barely five seconds passed before he heard a quiet, “Dammit,” and a set of footsteps following after him. Once John caught up he didn’t have to look at the other man to know that the doctor was eating the sandwich as well.

There was nothing Sherlock could do to suppress the smile that crept across his face.

John seemed slightly alarmed when they reached the doors to the loading bay and with a sudden movement and a quick flash of his penknife Sherlock cut the band off the doctor’s wrist. He replaced it with his hand and kept a loose grip as he waved his own, modified, wristband in front of the door sensors. The doors slid open and he led John through the loading bay, past the storage cabinets, the emergency equipment and a dozen different types of four-wheeled vehicles until they got to the street door which Sherlock had prearranged to be left unlocked. Their transport was waiting, ready and prepped, in front of it.

John stopped in his tracks. “That’s a… we’re going on a moped?”

Sherlock finally let go of his wrist and started picking up the equipment that had been piled on top of the vehicle. “Technically, since it’s one hundred and fifty ccs, it’s a scooter.”

“But why are we taking a mo- scooter?”

“Because we need something manoeuvrable to get through the streets and you can drive a scooter.” He turned and fixed John with an enquiring look in case the other man was about to deny it.

“Well yes I-“

“I knew it,” Sherlock turned back to the scooter and picked up one of the helmets, “from your left knee. Here, put these on.”

He handed over the helmet and a pair of leather gloves. John stared them, still looking perplexed.

“Wait, I’m driving-“

Sherlock sighed. “If digestion always slows you down this much I will have to start restricting your food.” John looked alarmed. “You’ll need this.”

He held out John’s gun. John carefully placed the helmet on the ground, his eyes flicking between the gun and Sherlock’s face. The doctor reached out and took the Sig Sauer P226 then methodically checked it over, removing the magazine and examining the de-cocking lever. Apparently satisfied he tucked the weapon into the back of his trousers and without a word started pulling on the helmet and gloves. Sherlock opened the shutter door then cut off his own wristband which he dropped by the side of the door as a calling card. He then followed suit and soon they were both sat on the scooter’s long seat, Sherlock behind John, holding on to his waist.

“Just follow my directions,” Sherlock said, more as a way to test the helmet microphones than anything else. He would expect that of John anyway. “Try to avoid any wreckage and feel free to ignore all road signs.”

“And if you want me to do an emergency stop you’ll bang your clipboard on the dashboard,” John said, deadpan.

Sherlock was cut off from responding by the ping of his mobile. Knowing who it was from he was tempted to ignore it. Reluctantly he removed one of his hands from John’s waist and took the phone out of his pocket.

 

Message Received

Don’t get into any confrontations and be back by nightfall.

Mycroft

 

Sherlock scowled and was about to put the phone away when it pinged again.

 

Message Received

Oh, and do try to bring the good doctor back in one piece.

Mycroft

 

“Problem?” John asked.

“None at all,” Sherlock replied, resisting the urge to throw his phone across the loading bay and instead slipped it into his pocket and returned his hands to their proper place, perhaps gripping a little tighter than before. “Let’s go.”

 

~

 

John leaned against the barrier in the middle of the road and watched Sherlock work. The quiet in London had been deathly; out here it was almost eerie. There was just something wrong to see the M25, Britain’s biggest traffic jam, so deserted. He had expected the traffic jam to still be there but, according to Sherlock, most of the junctions had been cleared of vehicles by first the army - to expedite manoeuvres straight after the Event - and then by collectors to ease their journeys in and out of the capital.

The ambush had happened on one of the junctions which meant it wasn’t so much ‘gunfight on the M25’ as ‘gunfight on, above, below and around the M25’. One glance at the scene and John could tell it must have been hell for the team. They would have been under attack from the motorway flyover as well as from nearby bridges while the fences and surrounding trees would have made it difficult to get the vehicles off the road. Just being there left him feeling exposed and vulnerable, constantly checking over his shoulder in case the enemy came back.

There were tyre marks on the banks where the van containing the civilians had managed to escape and cut across a nearby field, not far from the copse where John had parked the scooter. Judging by the marks he had seen when they had walked up to the road the van had been pursued by at least two other vehicles.

There was blood on the tarmac, spent bullets at the roadside and two bodies in the undergrowth. It should have reminded him of Afghanistan, but somehow with Sherlock crawling all over it all, examining skid marks with a tiny magnifying glass and pacing out projectile directions with those ridiculously long legs of his, it completely failed to. He couldn’t help be amazed by how much information Sherlock had gotten from the shoes of one of the dead men. He almost smiled at how excited Sherlock gotten about a tiny piece of exhaust the other man found on the hard shoulder. He found himself getting caught up in Sherlock’s whole process. So what else could he do? He followed wherever Sherlock led across all the sections of the junction, he gave his medical opinion of the dead bodies when it was requested – although John was left with the strangest feeling that Sherlock didn’t really need it although he couldn’t fathom why it would be asked for if that was the case – and he gripped his gun all the tighter so as to be ready when its use was called for as well.

A couple of hours went by and John was just about to suggest they start heading back if they wanted to get home before sunset when Sherlock suddenly stood up and declared that he needed to see the collectors base at South Weald.

“What?”

John had kept voice was low and dangerous but Sherlock just looked at him as if he was an idiot, a possibly deaf idiot, and continued walking back to where they had parked the scooter. John followed, trying all the while to think of something, anything, he could say that might possibly persuade the other man as to how insane this idea was. By the time they were both back on the scooter with helmets on and Sherlock’s hands around his waist he realised he had utterly failed. Even though all sense of self-preservation was begging him to turn back the way they had come he instead followed the words being spoken into his ear.

“Don’t worry,” Sherlock said as they came off the main road and cut down a little country lane. “I’ll make sure you don’t get collected.”

There was something almost reassuring about the tone which didn’t quite match up with the fingers gripping into his sides and the way his mind was being read.

They followed the lane north, going under the M25 at one point, until they reached the railway line. They hid the scooter in the undergrowth near the railway bridge then cut across two fields and the main road on foot before reaching some woods.

It was odd, the effects the Event seemed to have had on different types of plant life. In London it had almost seemed hit and miss which trees or flowers had been destroyed and which had survived. Of course the Event had happened in winter so all the plants underground at the time had come back once spring hit but there was still some greenery from before that had somehow survived when all the people and animals had been wiped out. The wood they entered was like that. On the very edge there were hundreds of saplings looking like they had been newly planted. As they ventured further in the trees looked older but like they had been in a terrible fire; only half alive. The deeper in they explored the more plant life they found living. At the densest part John nearly gasped with surprise as a squirrel crossed his path.

Whatever hope or liveliness that small miracle may have built in him was dashed as they started to come out of the trees. Running along the eastern edge of the woods was a road and on the other side of it was a barbed fence far too tall to be designed for livestock. At least not animal livestock. At the top end of the woods they got their first glimpse of what it was keeping in.

At the same place as the trees petered out the farm opposite had its main gate and driveway. There was a jeep, three quad bikes, half a dozen or so burly men holding shotguns and about ten or fifteen men and women connected in a long line by chains around their necks. The slaves were filthy, dressed in what seemed to be rags, and all slouched limply with their heads hanging low. They were covered in the scars of their servitude with one or two still bleeding from fresh beating and whip marks. All of them looked exhausted and worn down, their hands particularly ragged and torn. They were being forced to tend the fields with their bare hands, not trusted with tools which could be used as weapons.

John only realised he had taken a step towards them, his fingers tightening further around his Sig, when Sherlock’s hand clamped around his wrist. He looked back and saw the other man shake his head. He stepped back under cover, rage drumming in his ears.

The link at one end of the chain was being connected to the back of the jeep by two of the guards. The other men seemed distracted talking among themselves or busying themselves with their other vehicles. None of them seemed to be paying attention to the slaves, apparently confident that the people were utterly helpless and at their mercy. John obviously wasn’t the only one to notice the lack of attention.

A young Chinese looking girl at the very back of the line took the moment to snap what must have been a weak link in the chain connected to her collar. John’s heart leapt as she made a break for it towards the woods, then crashed as he saw the inevitable. She was thin as a rake, desperate, very quick and quite light on her feet but she got barely a moment’s head start before the men were shouting and chasing after her.

She kept ahead of them, successfully dodging the first bullet and heading straight towards where John and Sherlock were hiding.

He had to help. Six against one was bad odds but with the element of surprise he could do something, get her out of there, set her free. Queen and country and this was his country. He had to do something.

He raised the gun again but before he could aim for the approaching guards Sherlock grabbed his wrist with one hand, slapped the other over his mouth and pulled him into a tight embrace, his right arm pulled sharply across his torso so it pinned his left.

No!

He was held flush against Sherlock’s chest behind the tree so he couldn’t see the girl anymore. He struggled, jabbing Sherlock in the side with his elbow, desperately trying to break the hold. He had to do something; couldn’t Sherlock see he had to do something? Why wasn’t Sherlock doing something?

BANG!

At the high pitched cry he froze, breath caught in his chest. He could feel the rapid beat of Sherlock’s heart through his back. He could barely hear the approaching footsteps of the men over the drumming of his own heart.

There was a sob, a whimper, and a quiet plead for mercy.

He twisted and writhed in Sherlock’s grip, fighting his way forward. Gunshot wound to the back, he could deal with that. He had dealt with that before. He could still get her out of there.

Sherlock held firm, fingers digging into his wrists so hard there would be bruises.

“’Orace won’t be ‘appy,” one of the guards said, gruffly.

“Well she’s no good to us now, is she?” another replied.

There was another gunshot and the sobbing abruptly stopped.

 

~

 

As soon as the guards’ footsteps moved from the grass back onto the tarmac, Sherlock felt John give a shuddering breath and go limp in his arms. The other man slumped against his chest, head tilted to one side so it almost rested against his shoulder.

Satisfied that the doctor was no longer planning to make a monumentally stupid mistake he loosened his grip. He let go of John’s wrist gently and dropped his hand from John’s mouth. He didn’t let go completely though, simply lowered his arms so they were against John’s chest and shoulders instead. For a few moments he held his companion in place, listening to the guards disabuse their collection of any aspiration of escape, feeling every deep breath John took.

When the Jeep engine started he felt John straighten up, muscles tensing as the ex-soldier came almost to attention, shoulders rolling back and chin lifting up.

He leaned forward and whispered in John’s ear. “We need to follow.”

John seemed to have focused his gaze on a distant point far ahead of him but he nodded firmly and Sherlock finally released him. John took a step forward, adjusted his grip on the gun, then turned back towards the road, his expression blank. Sherlock didn’t need to look to know that John was staring at the body of the girl. Somehow John managed to straighten up even more and raised his gaze to the guards and their collection. Sherlock watched him for a moment, then when he was certain the doctor wasn’t about to make a move he leaned around the tree to watch as well. The slaves were led away, the jeep moving off slowly so they could keep up. Once the group were sufficiently ahead Sherlock made a break for it across the short gap between them and another grove ahead, satisfied when John followed in silence.

They kept under as much cover as the trees provided, following along beside the collectors until a house came in sight. It was an elegant large country house with a wall that was more decorative than secure before someone had decided to cover it with barbed wire. A tall wooden gate swung open as the work party approached, then slammed closed again once all the guards and the slaves had passed through it.

Sherlock crept towards the gate, signalling to John that he should keep low as well. There were cameras on the outside of the house but they were most likely hangovers from the previous occupants than an actual security measure. While it was possible the collectors had a generator it was unlikely they would be able to spare the power for close circuit television. However they still had to keep out of sight of any people on watch. Their best bet was to get in during the chaos of the returning collectors. The attempted escape could work to their advantage if it meant more of the men were distracted ensuring they didn’t lose any other members of their collection.

He placed his ear close to the gate, listening to the slaves being marched off into the distance and the men arguing as they trudged inside the main building.

The gate had been locked with a chain and was rickety enough that it would make far too much noise if he tried to go over the top. He had to find a way in which wouldn’t be noticed.

With a hand wave to tell John to follow he crept along the edge of the wall, staying close to it while he searched. Finally he spotted the perfect opportunity. What looked like two old barns had been built into the wall so there was a spot where the roofs sloped into each other which would be perfect to hide in. The walls were taller than the outside barrier but there wasn’t any barbed wire. The roof stuck out just enough for him to be able to grab hold of it and pull himself up once he was given a leg up which John seemed happy to provide. John then appeared to expect Sherlock to pull him up onto the roof as well but Sherlock ignored him, focusing on crawling along the roof unnoticed then slipping down the other side, leaving the indignant hisses of, “Sherlock!” behind him.

It was easy. He slipped unnoticed into the main courtyard. The quad bikes had been put away somewhere else but the jeep as well as two Land Rovers and a pickup truck were still stood around by the gate. There was shouting coming from the house, it seemed the returning men had barely made it in the door before getting told off by ‘Orace. Using the vehicles as a shield he was able to check the tyres, examine the bodywork and test the petrol. It took him less than twenty minutes before he was able to get back to John.

“It wasn’t them,” he said quietly as he landed. “No damage to the vehicles, tyres don’t match the marks and the mud is all wrong.”

“Couldn’t it be other members of the group who just aren’t back yet,” John said, expression still shuttered and emotionless.

“Exactly,” said Sherlock, glancing back towards the building to check for observers. “Which means we need to find them.”

The sun was very low in the sky by the time they got back to where they had hidden the scooter. Sherlock let John pull it out of the bushes while he got out his mobile phone and did a quick search for hotels in the area.

There were two in a nearby village but they were probably too close to the house to be likely suspects. Still, they were on the route back to junction twenty-nine so it wouldn’t do any harm to check them out.

They were both deserted, as he expected. He didn’t even get John to slow down the scooter.

He guided John through the country lanes, making a quick stop at a golf club along the way just in case there were rooms there where the ambushers could be staying – there weren’t – until they were back on the A127 to check out a Travelodge further down the road. It was the most likely destination, being large with plenty of rooms and parking. It was also in the strategic location where the ambushers could have set a watch on the main road for the team while the main force took the country roads to come from the south as the colonel had described. It was ideal.

It was a wreck. It looked as though a lorry had been pulling into the nearby service station then, with no one to stop it, had crashed into a wall, over turned and destroyed the restaurant. The lorry had then either caught fire by itself or been set on fire by the unattended cooking equipment and the whole place had gone up. Dull really. Sherlock turned to go.

John continued to stare at the ruins, his head tilted slightly to one side and a faraway look in his eyes. When Sherlock called his name the doctor briefly closed his eyes then turned away before opening them again. He didn’t say anything but instead just got back on the scooter. Sherlock gave the ruins one last glance, quickly running through likely reasons for their effect on John before tucking it all away in the back of his mind to review later. He slid on to the scooter behind John and gave the directions to an inn near the railway station just south of where they were.

It was another dead end in a dead village, long since raided and abandoned.

By the time they reached their next destination it was almost fully dark. The moon wasn’t up so the stars were shining brightly in the clear sky. If Sherlock could have been bothered to learn such pointless things as constellations he was sure he could have picked out every single one. As it was even he had to admit it was beautiful, all the more splendid without any other lights to distort them. Although that fact did make it more dangerous that their headlight, small as it was, would be spotted.

They missed their turning at first but John performed a swift U turn, circling a stalled car, then slowed down as they drew near their target.

It was a small country hotel barely a mile away from the junction although it’s position north of the junction made it an unlikely hideaway. Still it was worth a look before they moved on to the nearby town of Cranham. As they approached the small headlight illuminated an elegant house with a couple of chalets attached and three heavy duty Land Rovers parked in front.

Sherlock was almost impressed with how quickly John reacted, switching off the headlight, turning the scooter around and heading for the undergrowth. They plunged into a ditch and John switched off the engine just as the doors to the house flew open, spilling light out into the courtyard.

Sherlock threw himself to one side, pulled off his helmet and crawled to the edge of the ditch to peek over the top. He took in the scene in front of him, his mind whirring at the consequences of a group being there despite it defying his predictions.

Two figures walked out of open door just as John crawled up beside him, gun at the ready. Sherlock barely noticed him, mind focused on everything the two men who had just appeared could tell him without speaking. Their walk, their clothes, their gestures, their expressions.

One of them walked out into the courtyard, head twitching from side to side, looking or listening for something. The other hung back by the door, the very picture of irritation.

“I told you-“ the one by the door started.

“No, seriously,” the other said. “I saw something.”

“There’s nothing here,” the irritated man threw his hands in the air and spun on the spot. Sherlock caught a glimpse of a patch of blood on the back of his leg. “There’s no one around for miles.”

The second man took a step towards them. With the light coming from the house behind the two figures it was hard for Sherlock to see the man’s expression. He couldn’t tell whether the man was seeing the hundreds of clues that would be obvious to him even in poor light that practically shouted that a scooter had come off the road just in front of the house and two men were spying from the undergrowth. It wasn’t the first time his life had hung on the hope that someone else was dumber than him, with the general idiocy of the population it was practically a weekly occurrence. It also wouldn’t be the last as the man finally turned around and mumbled,

“I’m sure I saw a light.”

There was blood on his shoes as well. Approximately seven or eight hours old. Someone in that house had been bleeding and the men hadn’t noticed it had gotten on them.

“It was probably just a shooting star,” the man by the door said as both men went back up the steps and into the house. “Make a wish.”

The door shut behind them, extinguishing the light.

Sherlock was sure this was the place. But it didn’t make sense. He had to check the vehicles to be absolutely certain.

He pulled himself up and out of the ditch and crept towards the house, treading lightly on the pebbled driveway. John followed quickly behind him and for a moment he considered ordering the doctor to wait by the scooter out of sight and out of harm’s way. He quickly squashed the thought, after all what was the point of having an assistant if he was just going to send him away. Still, that the idea had crossed his mind puzzled him.

They crouched behind the Land Rover closest to the road and Sherlock pulled out his torch. He switched it on then paused a moment to check for movement from the house.

When there was no immediate reaction he left John to keep watch while he turned his attention to the vehicle. He examined the tyres – briefly holding the torch in his mouth while he took a sample if the mud from the tread – and tasted the petrol – Sherlock saw John screw up his face at that. Then he turned off the torch before moving round to the side of the car that faced the house. He quickly ran his hands over the bodywork, feeling the bumps and dents but, frustratingly, there was nothing conclusive.

Closer to the house he could just about see the thin edge of light peeking out from the curtains. The group must have brought quite powerful battery operated lamps with them. They were fully prepared for a long haul. The small glow wasn’t enough to see anything by but was just enough to ruin his night vision. He pulled up his mental image of the courtyard as he had seen when the door was open and headed for the next vehicle. John, who hadn’t followed him round to the other side of the car but had clearly deduced his movements, followed. But evidently the other man’s mental map was not as accurate as Sherlock’s – not that he would have expected it to be – and John’s foot caught on the tyre. The doctor caught himself almost immediately but scuffed the pebbles loudly as he did so. Already at the other car, Sherlock ducked down behind it, hoping John would have the good sense to dodge back behind the first Land Rover rather than attempt to make a dash for it across the courtyard. In the thin veil of light that crossed the courtyard as someone inside the house peeked through the curtains he saw that John had done exactly that. He let out a breath he hadn’t realised he had been holding.

Once the watchman was gone and John was by his side again he was able to turn his attention back to car. This one had definite bullet holes at the rear. Sherlock stood with his back to the house, using his coat to block the light of his torch as he confirmed to himself that they matched the sort of artillery the team had been carrying. Another mud sample and a taste of the petrol and the evidence stacked up. There was one more car left to test.

The third car was the trickiest. It was the closest to the building and the fuel cap was on that side of the vehicle. After checking the tyres on the far side of the car and taking the mud sample he turned off the torch and pressed a hand firmly to John’s shoulder to indicate he should stay still. He very carefully skirted around the edge of the car. He took off his gloves to run his hands along the bodywork so he could feel out the fuel door by touch. He pulled open the flap and dipped his finger in to catch some of the fuel that had been dripped around the fuel cap He brought it to his mouth and delicately tasted it with the light touch of his tongue.

It was exactly the same as the other two Land Rovers and nothing like fuel from the collector’s vehicles at South Weald. They were two different groups. It was all a set up.

“Sherlock!”

Sherlock dropped to the ground before John had even finished hissing out the first syllable and scrambled under the car before the shaft of light from the twitched curtains could hit him. He froze until the light had gone then crawled towards John. Strong hands helped him up the other side and he kept hold of one so he could tug it in the direction of the scooter as a silent indication that they should be going.

Then things got very noisy, very quickly.


	6. Chapter 6

Time was supposed to slow down in moments like this, wasn’t it? All lies. Nothing slowed down but it did all become very focused. All extra thoughts of wondering what Sherlock was doing, exactly how much petrol Sherlock had consumed, staying out of sight of the house, getting Sherlock to safety, working out how quickly they could slink back to the scooter, all fled under the one overarching instinct; turn, raise arm, adjust feet, aim, fire.

The first man through the flung open door dropped like a sack of potatoes, a neat hole in his forehead.

Sudden shock and panic scrambled for his attention but were squashed down when five more men, armed with various weapons, plunged through the doorway. He picked the one with the biggest gun, turned his aim towards him and pulled the trigger.

Next target, turn, aim, fire.

Out of the corner of his eye he could see Sherlock crouched next to him, staring at him with wide eyes and a peculiar expression on his face.

Turn, aim, fire.

Bullets hit the bonnet of the car in front of him. He ducked down, breathing hard, and then aimed upwards toward the window where the gunfire was coming from. Two shots stopped it.

Two men were still in the courtyard but he could only see one. He shot the one he could see then, crouching down for maximum cover, scanned the area for the last.

Feet below the other car, coming towards them. Protect Sherlock!

He took a few steps forward and pulled the trigger again, stopping the last man in his tracks.

It had all taken under a minute.

He could feel the adrenaline pumping through his veins, the loud drumming of his heart almost drowning out the sound of angry shouting from the house. There were more to come. He turned back to the building and raised his gun again, fully prepared to stay there and keep shooting for as long as it took.

Thankfully, Sherlock grabbed his free arm and pulled him back towards the ditch where they had left the scooter. They both ran, pebbles scattering under their feet, John looking over his shoulder to check what was going on at the house.

When they stopped he forced the gun into Sherlock’s hands, curling the other man’s fingers around the trigger and pointing his arm in the direction of the building. He didn’t want to leave it uncovered for a moment. By the time he had dragged the scooter out from the undergrowth and pulled his helmet on, Sherlock was stood straight as a board, glaring at the building as if it had challenged him to a fight. He practically threw Sherlock’s helmet at him then started up the bike. As soon as he felt Sherlock slide on behind him he accelerated as fast as possible. When Sherlock let off a few gunshots he wanted to scold the other man for wasted ammo, especially when a quick glance in his mirror showed they hadn’t hit anything. It also showed a new group of men getting into the Land Rovers. Dammit, there was no way a one hundred and fifty cc scooter could out run a car.

He barely let up on the accelerator as they went into the corner that took them back onto the main road, he was so determined to make the most of the lead they had been given.

“Head lamp’s a bad idea,” Sherlock muttered in his ear.

“Crashing is a worse one,” John replied in a sing song voice as he weaved between crashed cars to prove his point.

He could see headlights in the mirror, clear in the darkness. Shit, how were they going to get out of this?

“Take the junction up onto the roundabout,” Sherlock said.

Was he a mind reader? For lack of any better ideas, and because it was really hard to argue with someone who could suggest an escape route while they were being chased by heavily armed angry men whose colleagues they had just shot in the same tone of voice someone might use if they were proposing a nice scenic path, he took the junction.

“Second exit,” Sherlock said as they hurtled up to the roundabout and John was internally scowling at the voice that reminded him he was going the wrong way round.

John nearly laughed at the calm way Sherlock said it, reminding him of the driving test jokes they had made at the beginning of the outing just a few- was it really only a few hours ago? It felt like days…

He yanked the handlebars sharply as they turned off at the second exit and back down onto the main road, this time on the other carriageway.

“Turn onto the footpath.”

The one where they had parked the scooter when they first arrived, was he mad? At this speed? Again he couldn’t come up with any better ideas and… well he trusted Sherlock, didn’t he?

They launched off the edge of the main road, disconnecting with the ground completely as they went over the sharp bank. But John had still been a daredevil student the last time he had had a scooter and he had practiced this trick before. Okay, so he had broken a couple of scooters this way as well – not all of them his, his mate Russell had been _furious_ – but most of the time he had managed it and you just didn’t forget those kinds of skills. Hopefully.

They landed with a jolt but kept upright and going despite the rough terrain. John resisted whooping but a relieved laugh escaped him unbidden.

“Knew you could do it,” Sherlock’s low voice said in his ear.

Warmth flooded his chest. He forced it back down and concentrated back on what was going on.

Any hope that their detour would be enough to shake off the cars was lost when, just as they got to the road at the other end of the footpath, the Land Rovers crashed down after them. The four by fours weren’t even slowed down by the off road diversion and were hot on their heels.

Sherlock ordered him to take the first right. Then turn left, then right, then left; all the while the cars were gaining, only kept behind by the blockages caused by the stalled cars in the middle of the road and even that didn’t slow them down for long. Any minute someone was going to have the idea to not wait until they had caught up with them before shooting and then they were going to be goners.

“Turn left onto the next road and switch off the headlight.”

“What-“

“John!”

It was the first time Sherlock’s tone had turned urgent throughout the whole night so John quickly obeyed, trying to drown out the mantra of, “We’re gonna crash, we’re gonna crash,” circling through his brain.

Except it was soon replaced by Sherlock’s constant instructions in his ear.

“Veer left. Veer right. Don’t slow down. Veer right. Not too close to the pavement. Veer Left.”

John obeyed every direction realising that Sherlock was successfully manoeuvring them around all the obstacles in the road. How was he managing that? Had the other man seriously memorised the layout from the tiny glimpse they had seen before John had turned the light off?

“Quick, John! Right. Left. Stop! Turn it off!”

John hit the breaks hard and switched off the engine. Sherlock immediately jumped off and started pushing the scooter along at a run, not bothering to take off his helmet. John helped, still following Sherlock’s lead, while at the same time looking around for their pursuers. Sherlock grabbed his arm and pulled until they were both flattened behind a low brick wall.

This was never going to hide them. They were going to get caught. They were going to get shot. Or worse put in chains like those poor people at the farm. Oh god, he’d rather die.

All three cars sailed straight past.

Before he could overcome his shock Sherlock’s hand was on his arm, pulling him upwards again.

“We need to get under better cover before they realise they’ve lost us.”

Sherlock briefly turned on his hand torch, swung it around to look at the street where they had stopped, and then started pushing the scooter towards a house. They managed to break open a side gate and get into the back garden before the Land Rovers swung back round again.

John leaned against the wall, feeling out of breath and out of adrenaline. He heard a low thunk which he took to be Sherlock placing his helmet on the ground. He allowed himself to slip down the wall until he was sat on the ground and took off his helmet as well. The slight scrape of cloth on brick told him Sherlock had sat next to him.

“That,” John said, “was the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever done.”

“And you invaded Afghanistan.”

“How do you know that?”

“I read it in your file when I was sorting out your room allocation. Did you really have a psychosomatic limp?”

John scratched at his right leg automatically. It hadn’t hurt for months.

“Yeah,” he said, feeling uncomfortable. “Disappeared the day of the Event, though.”

Sherlock didn’t say anything. John wished he could see the other man’s expression.

“If we’re staying put,” John said, to break the awkward silence, “we might as well break in and sit on furniture instead of ground.”

Sherlock grabbed his arm. “Not yet and not here. Wait a bit.”

John sat still for… he wasn’t sure how long. Enough for the adrenaline to fully leave his system and the chilly night’s air to hit hard. He started to shiver. Sherlock’s shoulder pressed in to his and he leaned into it, grateful for the body heat.

Eventually Sherlock seemed satisfied that the vehicles weren’t coming back and turned his torch on again, nearly blinding John in the process. Sherlock stood up then helped John to his feet. Together they pushed the scooter out of the garden and back on to the street. They walked along, Sherlock shining the torch ahead and leading the way back along the streets they had previously ridden down. Every now and then Sherlock would shine the torch up at a house, make a noise of disapproval and move on. John was just about to ask what one earth they were supposed to be looking for when Sherlock suddenly stopped in his tracks. When the other man started to move again it was to stride with great purpose towards one house, which to John looked no different to any of the other houses they had passed, leaving John to follow him with the scooter.

The door had once had glass panels and so Sherlock was able to easily reach through and unlock it. He charged through leaving John to manoeuvre the scooter through the door. John leaned it against the wall in the hallway and followed through to a back room.

It was clearly the dining room, dominated by a large wooden table with elaborate looking chairs. Thick curtains blocked the windows and boring looking landscapes lined the walls. Sherlock had left his torch on the table and was rummaging through the drawers of an old bureau on the corner of the room

“What’s so special about this house then?” he asked.

Sherlock didn’t answer the question but instead grinned and raised a box of matches triumphantly.

“Candles,” he declared, lighting one of the matches.

Sherlock used the flame to light two small scented candles which were also on top of the bureau, instantly filling the air with the slightly sickly scent of lavender. Picking them both up he turned to the dining table. Placing them carefully in the middle of the table he sat down on one of the chairs and looked at John expectantly. John obediently pulled out one of the chairs and sat down as well.

“So,” he said. “Are you going to tell me what you found out, then?”

Sherlock jumped to his feet and started talking at a mile a minute. “I’m certain the men from the hotel were the same group who ambushed the team. The track marks match up, and the damage to the Land Rovers was caused by the same type of guns the team were carrying. Once the mud samples I took have been properly analysed they will support that as well. However, they are a completely separate group from the collectors at South Weald, the petrol didn’t match up. Now the collectors from-“

“Wait, you could tell that by tasting the petrol?”

Sherlock stopped mid flow and turned on his heel to face him. “Petrol differs between suppliers and batches, the quality, the purity, the content.”

“And you can detect them all by taste?

Sherlock scowled. “No, my research on the matter has never been that extensive but even an idiot could taste that they were different.” He started to pace again. “The South Weald collectors had a different type of petrol in each of their cars, most likely a mixed quality taken from whatever supplies they came across including siphoning from other cars. All the vehicles at the hotel had exactly the same type of petrol from exactly the same source. They’re clearly not from the same group.”

“That’s brilliant.” The words escaped his mouth before he could think.

Sherlock paused then pivoted back towards him as if mildly thrown by the compliment. After a moment he resumed his pacing and talking with the same fervour as before.

“The collectors from Dartford would have no reason to intervene with matters so close to the territory of the South Weald collectors, so who is this new group? And what are they up to?”

Sherlock seemed to be directing the questions at himself, shaking his hands on either side of his head as if to will the answers in.

“So they’re not collectors?” John asked, feeling a bit like a spectator at a tennis match as he followed Sherlock’s movements.

“Oh, I think they are,” Sherlock said sounding oddly pleased. “But they’re not based here. They were obviously only at that hotel last night and tonight.” There was more hand waving as Sherlock continued in an earnest tone. “Notice how much easier it was for us to get into their courtyard than it was to get into the South Weald base? No barbed wire, no guards, the cars weren’t even alarmed. It is not their intention to be there for a lengthy period but they did come fully prepared to spend at least a couple of nights; they had powerful lights not candles like us. So not just passing through. They deliberately came here, now, for a reason and it would be a large coincidence if that reason had nothing to do with our team. I’ve never believed in coincidences.”

“They deliberately came here to ambush the team,” John sounded out the words, trying to get it straight in his head. “As a way of attacking the Enclave? To target someone specifically? Why?”

This was like a war. Well he knew whose side he was on.

“If it was for either of those reasons they were vastly ill-equipped,” Sherlock said. “That is, they had perfectly adequate equipment, military issue in fact, but the personnel were incompetent. Even you managed to take out seven of them.” John’s mouth fell open. “Oh don’t look offended you know what I mean. You were one man with one small handgun and they didn’t even clip you. At the junction they had the strategic position and the element of surprise and yet our team suffered only non-fatal injuries and killed at least two of their group. It was a shambles.”

“Couldn’t they just have been idiots?”

“Or they were never supposed to be too great a threat. They were intended to catch our attention but not cause too much damage. Straightaway everyone jumped to the conclusion that there was another group of collectors in this area which is exactly what they wanted us to think.”

“But why would anyone want that?”

“To distract from somewhere else. To make us think there’s been a build-up this side of London instead of where they really are.”

“Which is,” he said, “where?”

Sherlock stopped in his pacing then threw himself down on the closest dining chair to hand which just happened to be the one next to John.

“West, most likely,” he said, heaving a huge sigh. “Possibly south. The samples I took from the tyres might be able to tell me more. Depends on whether whoever’s orchestrating this is clever enough to do more than just draw a straight line across London and pick a spot on the opposite side. Or maybe they just took the first opportunity they could get to a reconnaissance team. Depends on who their inside man is.”

Definitely a war. “Their inside man?”

Sherlock waved a hand dismissively. “Well, they have to have an inside man, obviously.”

“Obviously,” John said, rolling his eyes.

Sherlock turned to look John straight in the eye, bringing their heads only a few inches away from each other. “How else did they find out the exact time the team would reach the junction? That hotel was far too close to the scene of the ambush for them to have gotten enough advanced warning to have met them there. They have to have an inside man.”

Sherlock sounded almost bored by the prospect, as if getting information through espionage was lacking imagination.

“So you need to find out who it is then,” said John.

Sherlock made a non-committal humming noise. He seemed a little distracted. Tired maybe? It was only at that point John realised quite how late it was. The moon had long since risen and light was peeking through the edges of the thick curtains.

“You should get some sleep,” John said. “There’ll be a bed upstairs. I’ll stand watch.”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. “You should rest,” he sounded disappointed for some reason.

John shook his head. He knew he should be exhausted after everything they had just been through but for some reason he felt twitchy and restless.

“I had a nap this afternoon, I won’t sleep tonight.”

Especially after seeing that girl shot and that burnt out building. The nightmares were waiting for him, he could feel it. The exhilarating ride for their lives through the streets had put them out of his mind temporarily but he knew they would come back if he closed his eyes. He wasn’t about to have another nightmare, not with Sherlock so close.

He wasn’t sure whether it was because he didn’t want to hurt Sherlock or because he didn’t want Sherlock to see him act like an animal.

“Besides, you need to rest your brain a bit and someone should keep an eye out.”

Sherlock looked thoughtful for a moment then got to his feet.

“See you in the morning,” John said.

“It’s past midnight,” Sherlock pointed out.

“In a few hours then.”

Sherlock nodded, picked up the torch and slowly walked out the room. After a short while John heard the other man gradually ascend the stairs. He let out a long breath, slouched back in his chair and tried not to think.

A few hours and then they could go back to the Enclave. He would be able to settle down, check on his patients, get something to eat and then maybe he and Sherlock could sit down and try and figure out this inside man thing. Or rather he could sit and watch Sherlock figure it out because it was obvious the other man’s brain worked at a level and a speed that would make his brain explode. Still, it was fascinating just to watch, let alone be part of the process. In a few hours he wouldn’t have to sit in the dark and look over his shoulder all the time. In a few hours they would be home.

A few hours.

What was he supposed to do with a few hours?

He jumped to his feet and stood still, gazing around the room for something to do. He had always hated waiting. When he had been in the army there had been times when they all knew something was going to happen and there was only so much they could do to get ready for it and then they would have to sit and wait. The other doctors would try to rest, prepare themselves for the trials ahead. He never could. He would find himself buoyed up by the anticipation of excitement. He had to do something.

After getting shot, London had been like that in the worst possible way. Months of waiting and waiting except without even the promise of excitement at the end of it all. Afghanistan had been bloody and terrible and frightening but it had been exciting. London had been… nothing. He had gone for walks, cleaned his gun, written his blog, gone to every single one of his useless therapy sessions just for something to _do_. Just to fill up the time while he waited for something to happen. Then something had happened. And it had been horrible and terrifying and catastrophic. But surviving every day after that had been something to do.

Now he had a few hours to kill; what a luxury.

He took the torch and went through the hallway, past their scooter, and into the front room.

It was neat to an almost ridiculous degree, with not a cushion out of place. There was a sofa and a couple of arm chairs gathered around the empty shell of what had been a glass coffee table and angled slightly towards the large fireplace which dominated one wall. There were no papers littered about anywhere and even the remote controls were lined up neatly on the mantelpiece underneath where the remains of a large flat screen television hung. He got the impression that whoever had worked so hard to keep it this way would have been disappointed by the layer of dust that had settled over everything.

There was an old carriage clock in the middle mantelpiece that had stopped at one o’clock precisely. On either side of it, distanced out from it at precise intervals, were four photos.

John had been in other people’s flats before in London. He had usually tried not to think about the people who had lived there, after all what was the point? But now he felt himself drawn towards the pictures and the remains of the lives they contained.

One was a wedding photo of a young couple who looked more relieved than happy. Another was of an older couple, clearly the same, in what looked to be the basket of a hot air balloon. The man was grinning widely and had his arm around his wife’s waist. The woman was facing the camera but her eyes were angled down towards her husband’s hand. There was a slight, almost surprised, smile on her face. The third photo was a formal school picture of a girl about six or seven years old with a forced smile on her face and uncertainty in her eyes. Her mother’s eyes. The fourth was another wedding photo but more recent. The bride looked a bit like the wife from the other photos. Amongst her bridesmaids was the little girl who was wearing a frilly red dress, had flowers in her hair and looked much happier than in her school picture.

Mistake. He shouldn’t have let his curiosity take over. Just because he was bored.

He pulled himself quickly away and left the room before he started thinking of Harry’s wedding photos. Or his parents’. Or the formal school pictures that he had hated but his mum had always insisted on buying until there was one from every single year of his and Harry’s school life lining the hallway. All except year seven as he had accidentally ripped that one when carrying his clarinet case down the stairs one time. His mum had always left the gap empty as if mourning the loss of continuity.

No, not thinking.

He hovered at the foot of the stairs, wondering whether there might be some books or something up there that might distract him. He didn’t want to wake Sherlock though.

Thinking of Sherlock made him suddenly wish the other man hadn’t gone to bed. He almost wished they had stayed up, talking into the night about… anything really.

Stupid. Pointless. Could he really not keep a grip on himself for a few hours?

He pulled himself together and went to investigate the kitchen.

 

~

 

Sherlock was woken shortly before dawn by an alarm going off.

He crawled out from underneath the bedcovers and retrieved his shoes, jacket and coat from the chair he had dropped them on a few hours before. Only once properly attired did he quickly make his way down the stairs and to the very back of the house where the noise was coming from. As he approached he heard the sound of swearing and scraping as well as the constant beeping.

As he entered the kitchen he found John, standing on one of the dining room chairs, muttering to himself as he unsuccessfully attempted to remove the cover of the fire alarm.

The kitchen was a large room which had obviously at one point been a very small room. An extension had been built – judging by the brickwork and styling – approximately four years previously. The walls were lined with counters on which sat not just the two ghastly scented candles from the dining room but twenty-four other candles of various shapes sizes and indeed scents. The whole room was bathed in light. Sherlock took a moment to congratulate himself on recognising that this would be a house belonging to exactly the sort of people to own lots of candles.

There was a great deal of empty space in the middle of the room. In the very centre of that space, in a tin can, John had built the small fire that was currently setting off the smoke alarm. Various cooking implements and food were lined up next to it.

With a joyous “Ha!” John managed to finally work the lid of the smoke alarm off its base and tugged the battery away so hard the wire snapped.

The other man didn’t immediately get down off the chair but closed his eyes and took a deep breath. Letting it out he opened his eyes and gave Sherlock an apologetic smile. Leaning against the doorway, Sherlock found a returning smile cross his lips without his permission.

“I didn’t mean to wake you,” John said, climbing off the chair. “I found this tin of coconut milk in the cupboards and,” he pushed the chair to one side. “You don’t have to have anything. We can wait until we get back if you like. But just in case you wanted to drag us both somewhere else first I thought I would make something.”

He sounded a touch embarrassed to be caught out but not at all uncertain, merely practical. There was no hidden motive, just exactly what he had said. Sherlock liked that.

He walked into the kitchen and took hold of the chair from the corner where John had pushed it. He turned it around and sat on it backwards so he could lean on the back and watch John.

John nodded briskly and sat down to attend to the fire. It was made up of twigs, which the doctor must have gone out to collect, and an empty tin can with holes round the bottom and the top. There was a saucepan rested on it covering the open top.

As Sherlock watched John worked in efficient silence; frying the tuna, throwing in dried onion, garlic, ginger, chilli pepper powder and what seemed to be any other ingredient that struck his fancy until he finally poured in the tin of coconut milk. John stirred until the mixture bubbled then, frowning at it, started throwing in more ingredients or more of the previous ones.

Sherlock was quite capable of cooking and tended to approach it with chemical efficiency, measuring out exact amounts, heating to precise temperatures and following cooking times to the letter. He would have expected John, as a medical man, to be the same. Instead the doctor seemed almost random in his approach. John had obviously gone through the kitchen cupboards and taken out a range of herbs and spices which had been lined up next to him as he worked. His selection of them had clearly been as haphazard as his use of them as some of them he didn’t even use at all. It was chaotic. And yet it was so obviously giving John pleasure to do it. Sherlock could see the pride building up across John’s face as the other man’s creation was built up in front of him. The expression started to spread across the doctor’s face, shooing away the usual mask of control. He watched with fascination as John took up a spoon of the… substance and blew gently over it before tasting tentatively. The doctor looked thoughtful and added more salt. This was better than the slideshows. It was as if John was relaxing for the first time since he had met the other man and it was strangely marvellous. He wanted to file the picture away somewhere in a special part of his hard drive labelled with ‘DO NOT DELETE’ in a large letters.

Eventually John seemed satisfied with his concoction and served it up onto two plates. He handed one plate of vaguely pink gloop towards Sherlock.

Sherlock hesitated then was delighted when John wasn’t offended by the apparent lack of trust in his cooking skills but laughed instead.

“It’s not poisoned. See?”

John picked up a fork and scooped some of the… stuff up and into his mouth. He licked the traces off of his lips with a content, “Mmm.”

Sherlock got up off of the chair, kicked it aside, then sat cross-legged on the floor. John was watching carefully so he pulled one of the plates close, took up a forkful and, without faltering, ate it. It was… edible. Quite good, surprisingly. It was spicy, but not too much. The texture was… interesting. He had had better but at the same time far, far worse. For something made out of the dried and canned contents of a kitchen cupboard and cooked up on an old tin can it was practically gourmet cooking.

John was still watching, looking curious. Sherlock turned to tell him that it was okay he supposed but John nodded with an expression of pure satisfaction across his face before Sherlock could open his mouth. Sherlock blinked at being read so easily then found himself oddly pleased by it.

“I found some brandy,” John said, getting to his feet and walking over to one of the cupboards. “Some whisky and some lemonade. What do you fancy?”

“What would you recommend to go with…” Sherlock faltered, looking dubiously at the plate in front of him.

“Tequila,” John replied promptly without turning around. “That’s what we had last time. But I can’t find any of that. Tell you what, take some candles through to the dining room, I’ll bring them all and we’ll just have what we fancy.”

Sherlock took two of the brighter candles through to the other room then came back for the plates of… the stuff while John put the fire out. Soon they were sat opposite each other at the ridiculously large dining room table and John was serving him a wine glass of whisky and lemonade.

“Well, this is romantic,” John said with a smile.

“You don’t cook often,” Sherlock said directly. “But you’ve made this dish before. Or something similar.”

John shrugged. “You know how it is when your student grant is running low and you’ve got barely any food in the house except half a tin of coconut milk your flatmate left in the fridge.” There was a faraway look in John’s eyes as the other man reminisced. “And it needs to be used up before it stinks up the place. And it doesn’t matter what it tastes like anyway because you’ve just finished your exams and have a heck of a lot of alcohol to get through that night which is the main reason you’re low on money in the first place. And everyone keeps barging in and having a taste and giving their opinion on whether you’ve added too much curry powder or enough salt until half of it’s been eaten by people having a taste. And you have to send people out for more tuna and more coconut milk than you actually wanted in the first place just to feed everyone when it was meant to be a quick snack for yourself. You just end up with this mad mish mash dish that everyone claims they made taste so good and it actually does taste quite nice.” There was a dreamy smile on his face. “And no one’s poisoned and somehow that evening just sticks with you as one of the most fun nights of university. Better even than the rugby trip to Norway. Well I say rugby trip… Anyway years later you’ve just had the worst A and E night shift of your life and you’re in a twenty-four hour corner shop staring miserably at the ready meals that look like they’d eat your stomach out from the inside and you spot a tin of coconut milk and you remember you’ve got some tuna back at the flat and you just… remember it.” His eyes suddenly met Sherlock’s again and he looked a bit embarrassed. “I guess you wouldn’t know how it is.”

“No.”

John laughed a little brokenly. “Well they didn’t die from the food so you might as well eat up.

John swallowed heavily and lowered his head to look at his plate. He poked at it a little with his fork.

Sherlock kept his eyes on the other man as he used his own fork to take another bite. “Could use more salt,” he said.

John closed his eyes, dropped his chin the final few inches till it touched his chest and burst out laughing. Sherlock found himself joining in as John’s shoulders shook uncontrollably. As soon as the doctor got his breath back he looked back up at Sherlock and, grinning, said,

“You’re brilliant, you know that?”

Sherlock smiled in response. He was never going to get used to that sort of flattery but he would love to give it a try.

They finished eating in comfortable silence and when John got up to gather up their empty plates and glasses it was almost domestic.

“Nice not to have to worry about washing up for a change,” John said genially as he took them out into the kitchen.

It was different, Sherlock thought. John Watson had been the most stimulating thing to happen to him for an age when they had met. He had wanted the man to stay wild and exciting. These quiet moments should infuriate him. He should be longing for the John Watson who can take out seven men in under a minute without blinking. Who races scooters, shouts at his brother and encourages his thinking. He should be bored. Yet somehow, as John came back in empty handed and graced him with another one of those smiles, he wasn’t.

“So what’s the plan for today?” John asked.

Sherlock got up. “There are a few stops I need to make but after that we can head back.”

John nodded. “More collector spots?”

“No, a few due payments.”

“What?”


	7. Chapter 7

“Six Billion people die and the first thing the survivors do is swipe all the condoms,” Sherlock muttered as he shifted through the wreckage of the pharmacy. “That just seems counter-productive.”

“I thought we were looking for nicotine patches?” John said as he upended a collapsed shelf.

“We are,” Sherlock said, scooping up an entire box of cough sweet packets and putting it in the pink rucksack.

They had taken several bags from the house as well as a tennis bag of children’s toys and all the alcohol they could find. They had then broken into another house further down the road. This one had looked like it had already been raided but further investigation showed it was just messy. Sherlock had picked out two large bags of ‘funsize’ chocolates and half a dozen packets of chocolate digestives. Somehow Sherlock managed to balance all of this on the back of the scooter although John had had to work hard not to giggle at the sight of him with a pink rucksack slung over the top of the long dark coat.

“How is this payment?” John had asked.

“After four months on a centrally controlled diet, you’d be surprised what people are willing to do for a chocolate biscuit.”

The pharmacy had already been raided. Every metal shelf was turned over, every packet and leaflet was torn, everything useful had been stolen and everything else had been flung about the shop. They had picked their way across the rubble and gone straight into the stock room at the back in the hope of finding untapped supplies.

John was just going through a crate of what seemed to be mostly boxes of earplugs when Sherlock froze beside him. A few seconds later he heard it as well; the distinct sound of a car coming slowly down the street followed by footsteps.

John double checked that both he and Sherlock were out of sight of the door and then started to worry about the scooter being spotted. When he heard the footsteps approach the pharmacy and crunch on the debris that littered the entrance he tried not to breathe. His hand moved to smoothly remove the gun from his pocket. There were five seconds when all he could hear was the drumming of his heart and then the footsteps moved away.

He let out the breath he had been holding then sucked it back in again when the footsteps paused once more. Another few seconds and the feet paused again. John realised whoever it was wasn’t coming back but was checking all the shops in the street.

He remained as still and silent as possible until he could no longer hear the car engine. After a quick look towards Sherlock – after all if Sherlock had heard them first perhaps he could tell if they were still around – he gingerly made his way to the front of the shop, getting close enough to the wide gap where the full wall glass window used to be to see out but far enough back to remain in the shadows of the building.

On the street, heading away from them was a heavy duty Land Rover and four heavily armed men on foot.

He went back to Sherlock who had resumed the search.

“I think it’s the men from the house last night,” he whispered.

“Of course it is,” said Sherlock dismissively. “But why are they looking for us? What’s so important that they would do that instead of heading back to their base? And who told them to do it? Aha! Sweet nectar!”

He picked up a box with a calculating smile on his face.

“Nicotine patches?” John asked.

The box was shoved towards him. “Put that in the bag. And the earplugs. We need to hurry but you’ll have to drive carefully. I need to keep my helmet off so I can listen out for those collectors.”

Sherlock’s definition of hurrying turned out to involve at least three more stops on their way back to central London. Standing guard while an almost certainly insane man snuck into a school and purloined a few dozen notebooks and packets of coloured pens when heavily armed collectors, who were already angry that he had shot at least seven of their number, could come around the corner any minute, was not an experience he would like to repeat.

But at the same time he was… well, if he was honest, he was having fun. Sherlock managed to keep them out of sight of the collectors and it was entertaining to watch the other man run around on their stops getting excited about little discoveries. Not to mention that seeing Sherlock in that pink rucksack never stopped being funny. Add that to the moment when, after they had stopped off at a clothing warehouse and Sherlock had broken into several of the crates, the other man had found a long red dress and held it against himself as if debating trying it on. John had found it impossible to keep a straight face and said,

“Definitely your colour. Bet it would show off your legs very well.”

Sherlock had given him a mildly nonplussed expression then turned back to the dress looking almost speculative. John had burst out laughing, if only because the mental image of Sherlock in the dress had crossed his mind and the other man had actually looked surprisingly fetching in it.

Sherlock had packed up the dress and picked out a few others as well. Then had turned his attention to the men’s clothing, choosing a wide selection, most of which, for some reason, seemed to be in John’s size.

All in all, John was actually a little disappointed when Sherlock eventually made them pull over so he could call the Enclave and warn them of their impending arrival. It was almost like the end of a holiday even though it had only been one day. No holiday lasted forever though. John had the distinct impression he would be working hard once he got back to pay for it. No one ever got anything for nothing.

“Five minutes, S two three,” Sherlock barked down the phone the instant it connected.

Sherlock then sighed and rolled his eyes which John took to mean whoever was on the other end was saying something pointless.

“We’ve been shopping as well,” Sherlock finally said, a little loudly as if talking over someone. “Do try and look after our bags, won’t you? Particularly the pink one?”

Whatever the reaction that produced from the person on the phone it caused a very smug expression to cross Sherlock’s face. He hung up without another word.

Entrance S two three was at the very bottom of an underground car park in Stockwell. It was impossible for garage doors to loom, wasn’t it? He wasn’t sure why he felt so nervous about it all. This was his home now. He wasn’t trapped there, he was needed. He had work and responsibilities. And, perhaps if he worked hard enough he might earn himself another trip out with Sherlock. He’d enjoy that. It had been a hell of a day.

The doors rolled up and they drove into a room that looked for all the world like an ordinary concrete garage that might be attached to a normal house, except without the usual detritus of bottles of car oil, half empty cans of paint and boxes for electronics they didn’t even own anymore but were keeping ‘just in case’. Instead there was a line of cabinets at the far end of the room including one with a green and white cross painted on the front. Next to the cabinets was a simple white door.

Sherlock dropped the bags at the foot of the cabinets and tugged open the door. It revealed a long corridor with doors evenly spaced along one wall. There were arrows marked on the wall in white paint pointing to the left. John followed as Sherlock led the way, ignoring all the doors until they reached a final one at the end of the corridor.

“Secondary entrance to short route decon,” Sherlock said as he opened it.

The room it revealed was identical to the disrobing room from the first time John had been through the whole decontamination process. Even the clothes basket looked the same. Although he told himself it was only because the whole place was designed to a standard scheme with generic furniture he couldn’t help but find it slightly eerie.

He turned to Sherlock who was swinging off his coat.

“You’re not going to wander off on me again, are you?”

Sherlock frowned. “No.”

John nodded. “Good,” he said and lifted off his jacket.

Only once he had dropped the last of his clothing in the bin did he let himself look back at Sherlock, being certain to keep his gaze directed upwards, focused on Sherlock’s top half for propriety’s sake.

The first thing he noticed was that good god the man was pale. Sure it was always going to be hard for someone who spent most of their time living in an underground bunker to get a tan, but Sherlock looked like he had never seen the sun, ever. Even the smattering of hair across Sherlock’s chest was so fine it might as well not have been there.

The second thing he noticed was that the man was ridiculously skinny. Of course he had spotted that the other man wasn’t exactly on the plump side but without the coverage of clothes Sherlock didn’t appear to have a spare ounce of fat anywhere. At least not from what John could see, there was, after all, a whole second half to the man John was most definitely not going to look at. Nevertheless Sherlock looked fit. Although not obviously muscled the other man looked wiry. John couldn’t be completely certain he could take him in a fight.

The third, fourth and fifth things he noticed in very quick succession. Unlike his own, Sherlock’s skin looked remarkably smooth with barely any visible scars or blemishes. He wondered if he would feel any if he ran his hands along Sherlock’s chest. It was at that point he noticed he had just thought about running his hands across Sherlock’s chest and, on top of that, he was definitely staring. Admittedly he had been successful in keeping his eyes in a safe place but staring was undeniably happening.

His fifth observation was that Sherlock was staring as well and unlike him, was not keeping his eyes at head level.

He coughed but made no move to cover himself up. You didn’t go through rugby team showers, medical school and the army without seriously denting your sense of shame.

Sherlock’s gaze snapped up to meet his. “You did have an injury to your leg then?”

“Oh.” Sherlock had been looking at his thigh? Thank god was the right thought to have right now, wasn’t it? Not… oh. “Yeah. Accident. From when I was a kid. Stopped me playing rugby for a month. I dunno, decided to reassert itself after I got shot.”

“Yes,” said Sherlock, taking a step towards him with an outstretched arm. “You were shot from behind, while bent over. Attending to a patient I assume.”

Sherlock’s hand hovered towards the scar on his left shoulder. John took a step backwards involuntarily. He could hear his heart pounding in his chest.

“Shouldn’t we,” he gestured towards the door that obviously went through to the next part of decon. His voice shook slightly.

Sherlock dropped his hands and said, “Of course,” before turning sharply and walking through the door.

John took a deep breath to regain control of himself and followed behind.

The next room was bigger than the shower room from the long route. This one contained several cubicles and had towels lined up on a rail along one wall. He could already hear water running from behind one of the curtains. There were also much fewer chemicals in the cubicle, with only one bottle of ordinary looking soap on display. John had planned to shower quickly and make sure Sherlock didn’t get the opportunity to run off again but as soon as he turned the water on he couldn’t help but pause and luxuriate in the spray. He was quickly getting the feeling he was never going to get used to this. He rubbed the soap into his skin and exhilarated in the sense of the sweat and dirt falling away. Nope, never.

He didn’t hear Sherlock’s shower turned off so he only realised the other man had already finished when he turned his own shower off and heard silence. He quickly grabbed a towel and dried himself before wrapping it around his hips and heading into the next room leaving damp footprints trailing behind him.

Sherlock was waiting for him, leaning against the wall of the next room dressed in the uniform scrubs and socks. John hoped his exhale didn’t sound too relieved.

He found some scrubs in his size in the piles on the shelves against the walls and got dressed, turning his back to Sherlock in a half measure for privacy. Finally he stood up straight. Sherlock nodded and opened the next door along. John breathed another sigh of relief knowing that there was only one more stop to go and then they could finally relax.

Then Sherlock’s deep growl threw that idea out the window.

“Bugger.”

 

~

 

The last thing, the absolute very last thing, Sherlock needed right now was to see his brother.

He had known that seeing John without clothes on would give him data, that’s why he had looked so carefully. He had wanted to know about the scars, to see them and deduce how they happened with his own eyes instead of through the mindless pixels of the computer screen. He wanted to see the muscles of a soldier and find out what four months of food deprivation had done to them. He had wanted to know it all. But he had been taken aback by how much data had hit him in that moment.

He hadn’t just picked up everything about John he could read in the other man’s flesh, he had also been bombarded by information about himself and the effect of seeing the other man naked. Then there had been John’s reaction to his nudity which was in definite need of cataloguing. Not to mention his own reaction to John’s reaction which he couldn’t quite qualify but was certain was part intrigue and part flattered. It was too much. It was almost an overload of information. He needed to shift through it, sort it, file it, analyse it. He did not need to face Mycroft right now. Especially when it was absolutely plain by the expression on his brother’s face that Mycroft knew exactly what was going through his mind right at that moment. Add that to the fact his brother was clearly angry about him defying those commanding text messages and Sherlock really did not want to have the coming conversation. Certainly not in front of John. Oh and that medical student was here as well, excellent.

“I brought him back in one piece,” he said, almost shouting it as if raising his voice would make the tightness of Mycroft’s eyebrows _go away_. “What more do you want?”

He heard a tiny groan behind him and turned his head slightly to see that John had leaned around him and was now looking at Mycroft with a reluctant expression. It sent a triumphant thrill through him to see John so disappointed to see Mycroft after having met him only two days before. Perhaps if more time passed John would loath Mycroft as much as he did. Then there would be no chance of Mycroft turning John into his pet soldier.

“Guess we’re not going to make it to Lestrade’s football game then,” John said.

“We were out less than twenty-four hours and had no contact with the general population,” Sherlock said, glaring back at Mycroft. “That only requires a twenty-four hour quarantine.”

“That rule only applies to people who actually managed to complete the initial seventy-two hour quarantine they started with,” Mycroft said. “You’ll be restricted to Blue Zone for another three days.” Mycroft sighed with false exasperation. “And I was so hoping to get Doctor Watson settled into routine at the main Infirmary.”

“And moved rooms to Green Zone,” Sherlock said.

Mycroft tipped his head as if considering the concept. The drama queen. As if Mycroft would ever get into a conversation where he hadn’t already thought through every variable, every come back and every possibility.

“I was thinking of having him permanently assigned to Red Zone actually, after the considerable skills he showed yesterday.”

Sherlock took a step forward. “You wouldn’t.”

His tone must have sounded truly threatening as it actually caused Mycroft to raise an eyebrow. It shot down again when John used the space Sherlock had given by moving forward to sidle into the room. John stood by his side giving him a wary look. Sherlock returned it with a determined one to let John know that he wasn’t about to let him be swept away where he couldn’t have him.

“John,” Mycroft said, his tone light.

Sherlock broke the locked gaze with John to glare at his brother.

Mycroft gestured towards the examination table. “I believe you have one more Lorimpoxate injection before you have finished the course? It’s a good thing you weren’t out any longer otherwise your health would have seriously suffered.”

Sherlock intensified his glare at the low blow; it was almost a wonder that John didn’t burst into flames as he walked across the divide between the brothers. How dare Mycroft insinuate that he had forgotten about, or even didn’t know about, John’s medical treatment? Of course he had known. He had been perfectly aware of how much time they had had to spare and Mycroft knew it. This was all some childish attempt to undermine him.

John hopped up on the examination table and, offering his arm to Helen, asked after one of the injured soldiers. Helen babbled on about them as she gave John the injection, then was silenced by Mycroft pointedly clearing his throat.

“Miss Webber, please don’t let my brother’s behaviour interfere with _standard procedure_.”

Helen looked chastised. John looked worried with an undercurrent of annoyance, which was pleasing.

“Right,” said Helen, sheepishly.

She fetched a clipboard from the side and started asking the standard questions. Where had they been? Who had they had contact with? What kind of flora and fauna had they been in contact with? Had they been within twenty kilometres of a power station or broadcasting tower? Had they consumed any food or drink? If yes than what?

“God knows,” Sherlock had answered to that one. “It was pink and lumpy. Tasted quite nice.”

John flashed him a quick grin but disappointingly didn’t chuckle. Sherlock was certain the other man would have done if Mycroft hadn’t been there. Some kind of reflex obedience to authority figures left over from the army no doubt. Sherlock wanted to be the only person John obeyed, not Mycroft.

Once the questionnaire was done Helen got out their new wristbands. Sherlock didn’t move from the position near the door, merely extended his arm so that Helen could put it on for him.

“You can attend to your patients now, Doctor Watson, Miss Webber,” Mycroft said, eyes still fixed on Sherlock’s.

Helen fled. John visibly bridled at the dismissal and looked towards Sherlock.

“You okay?”

“I’m fine, John,” he replied. “I’ll see you later.”

John seemed doubtful, glancing warily between the two of them, but eventually turned and left, shutting the door slowly as if hesitant to leave the two of them alone together. Sherlock appreciated the sentiment, he didn’t exactly want to be left alone with his brother either, but there were some things better done without witnesses.

Mycroft leaned back against the counters. Sherlock waited for the opening play.

“Before dark, I said.”

Mediocre hit at best, Mycroft was gearing up for a long game.

“I hadn’t finished.

“I also said no confrontations.”

“Since when have I ever done what you told me to?”

Predictable shot but sooner than his brother was expecting it; forcing Mycroft to respond by picking up his reserve tactic sooner than his brother had clearly anticipated.

“I would have thought you would be more careful given your additional responsibilities.”

“It was John who took out seven of our attackers; he was hardly an additional responsibility, more an assistance.”

“I could consider his enabling of your antics as trouble.”

An empty threat, Sherlock moved forward in his advantage.

“Would you rather argue about my friend or find out what I discovered about the collectors?”

Mycroft raised an eyebrow and Sherlock braced himself for the hard knock back.

“Your friend? That’s a bit premature, isn’t it? Especially for you.”

Dammit, foolish slip up. Mycroft didn’t pause to let him come back but instead pressed his attack.

“You’ve known people for years and not considered them any more than acquaintances but this man you consider a friend? What’s so special about him?”

Again Mycroft didn’t let him reply, as if he knew Sherlock didn’t have an answer – of course he knew, he was Mycroft. He had known everything about Sherlock since he had been born. Damn him and his seven year head start.

“Are you absolutely sure after an association of less than seventy-two hours he holds you with the same kind of regard?”

“Of course he does,” Sherlock said, trying not to snap. “He killed for me, he cooked for me, and you saw the way he looked at me. He trusted me enough to come here in the first place, that’s plenty of evidence from which to deduce a friendship.”

“Not everyone sees the world as plainly as you do.”

“And not everyone is as cold hearted as you are.”

It was a weak blow and Sherlock knew he had lost the round but it was enough to keep him in the game. He could never truly win against his brother, he knew that. But he had never been knocked out yet.

A slow blink from Mycroft decreed an end to play.

“Now I believe you have some data to impart?”

Sherlock’s mind immediately leapt to a rather different set of data than he knew Mycroft was referring to. He was fairly certain nothing showed on his face but the twitch of Mycroft’s eyebrow told him his brother knew exactly where and to whom his thoughts had drifted to.

Damn him.

An hour later – after Sherlock had changed out of those horrible generic scrubs and into one of his suits – they were both sat in front of the computer screen in Sherlock’s lab looking at the newly updated London Report. Neither of them had said anything since leaving the medical room; words were unnecessary when both of them were perfectly capable of interpreting the evidence in front of their eyes. Sherlock could input and correlate the data straight into the program, safe in the knowledge that his brother would deduce everything he had. The motives of the ambusher, the likely location of the collectors’ hideout and the identity of their inside man. He knew Mycroft would already be making plans on feeding the inside man just the right mix of correct and incorrect information so as to turn the situation around to their control. His brother had probably already formulated a dozen plans to ensure next time there was an ambush their team would come out on top, not just survive. He also knew with absolute certainty that soon Mycroft would know exactly what Sherlock wanted to do about it all.

“You’re not going, Sherlock.”

As expected; Mycroft was so overprotective.

“Scope out the area, confirm our calculations. Shouldn’t take more than a day or so. I won’t even go anywhere near, just observe from afar.”

“No.”

“I should be able to get us as much information as we’ll need to take them on from a safe distance. I’ll even persuade John not to shoot any of them if you like.”

“We won’t be taking them on.”

Sherlock gave him a sharp look and couldn’t keep the shock out of his voice as he said, “What?”

“They’re not a threat to us as long as they believe we are not a threat to them,” Mycroft told him quietly and calmly. “As long as they remain ignorant of exactly how much we know then we should be able to co-exist in peace.”

Sherlock jumped to his feet but kept his tone cool as he said, “You’re going to leave them out there.”

“We can’t ‘take on’ everyone you take a fancy to,” Mycroft replied in an almost sing song voice. “We just don’t have the resources.”

“Take a fancy to?” Sherlock couldn’t keep the revulsion out of his voice.

Mycroft seemed to ignore him. “For the moment there is a kind of equilibrium. We need time to build up our stocks and our plans for the future. The winter will kill off most of them anyway; we’ll deal with the rest in the new year.”

Sherlock shook his head. “So you’ll leave the collectors to rule the streets?”

Mycroft tipped his head. “Don’t pretend you care, Sherlock. Not to me. This has temporarily piqued your interest but tomorrow you’ll be back to cloning bees or you’ll find another stray that catches your attention.”

“This is not about that-“

“Of course it is.” Mycroft’s voice was soft and almost caring now. “You have a tendency towards the most dangerous obsessions. Right now is no different and I’m not about to let either of them harm you.” Mycroft stood up and his tone became business-like again. “Besides, I have the wellbeing of this institution and its people to consider and I won’t let even you interfere with that. Good day, Sherlock.”

Sherlock deliberately turned his back as Mycroft headed for the door. He had just grabbed his violin and was getting ready to play a few notes while he let his thoughts rearrange themselves when he overheard Mycroft speaking to someone in the corridor.

“Doctor, Colonel.”

Sherlock put his violin down and bolted for the door only to be greeted by a corridor completely bereft of John Watson.

 

~

 

John hadn’t particularly wanted to leave Sherlock. True, no matter how severe Holmes had looked, he was Sherlock’s brother. And true, Sherlock had been talking about him, and indeed looking at him, like he was an object rather than a person. But the way Sherlock had been glaring at his brother with so much venom, he couldn’t have been happy to be left alone. He had wanted to stay and maybe waylay some of Holmes’ concerns that they had been perfectly okay after the confrontation with the collectors and that it was at least partially his fault that they got caught anyway so not all of the blame was taken out on Sherlock. But Sherlock’s calm dismissal had made it plain John had to leave, so he had gone to check on his patients.

They were all doing well. Three had been discharged in his absence and Hedgely was progressing as expected. Lewis was doing remarkably well and would be up and about sooner than John had initially hoped. He would have praised Tom Wearing for the good work if a, the surgeon’s ego wasn’t big enough already and b, the man wasn’t currently furious with him.

“I can’t believe you just walked out in the middle of everything and then got yourself quarantined here for another three days. Three days!”

“You’ve coped perfectly fine without me,” John pointed out reasonably.

“It was all organised,” Tom said in what was probably supposed to be a threatening growl if John couldn’t at that moment list about six hundred and fifty-eight- no, fifty-nine things he had personal experience with that were scarier than Tom. Bunny rabbits for example.

“Shifts, rotas, time off.” Tom counted each one on his fingers as he waved his hands wildly in John’s face.

John had fallen into standing at military rest, only half listening. It was almost like being on parade; except with a toddler giving the commands instead of an officer. Now if Tom Wearing could meet some of his old commanding officers, he’d learn the true meaning of a dressing down.

“And now you’re not going to make Thursday’s football practice!” Tom said. “I had a hall booked and everything.”

“Oh, what a shame,” said John, trying to sound at least slightly concerned but was pretty sure he had failed.

In the corner of his eye line, which was just to the left of Tom’s shoulder, John saw the doors open and Seb enter. He forced himself to suppress a smile as Seb took in the situation, rolled his eyes in an exaggerated way then feigned falling asleep.

“If you are not going to even pretend to respect my authority here then you might as well be on the outside.”

Good god this man had his head shoved firmly up his arse, didn’t he?

“And next time you try running off-“

“Oi!” Seb called from the doorway. “Is someone going to look at my bloody stitches or can someone get me a chair? I’d hate to bleed to death where I’m standing, I might block the doorway.”

Before Tom could answer John started towards one of the beds.

“Come over here so I can see what the problem is.”

“Finally,” Seb stopped leaning against the doorframe and walked to the same bed as John had gone to. “Honestly, the service here is atrocious. See if I come here again.”

“Give it here then.”

Seb offered his arm. John looked it over and pushed it back towards the Colonel.

“So no problems at all then?” he said, tipping his head to one side.

Seb grinned. “None at all, you stitched me up fine, doc. I just thought you needed rescuing.”

“Thanks, but I can take care of myself.”

Seb’s grin faded and his eyebrows rose. “So I heard. Five men killed and another two injured? You have had a busy night.”

“Well, they weren’t very nice men.”

Seb laughed. “You’ve got that right. And I’m sure there’s plenty from the team that would buy you a drink. Not that they could get one around here.” Seb winked. “Although I can help you out with that if you liked.”

John smiled and didn’t mention the four bottles of brandy buried underneath a small mound of cuddly toys at the bottom of the tennis bag they had brought back.

“Listen,” said Seb. “I was going to go look at the memorial wall. People appreciate it if you give it a once over after you’ve been outside. Why don’t you come with me? See if you recognise anyone?”

John shook his head. “We didn’t see many people apart from collectors.” He paused as the memory of two gunshots went through his head. “And some collectees.”

“Come see if you recognise them. Hell, see if you spot any of the collectors. No one said the people on the wall had to be ‘nice’, just that they were loved.” Seb jumped to his feet. “Now?”

“Why not? I’m sure they can get along perfectly well without me.”

There was a humph from the direction of Tom Wearing and Seb and John shared a smile.

As they strolled along the corridors to the memorial wall John was pleased to note that he recognised most of the way; the place was already turning into less of a maze for him. Less overwhelming.

“So, did you put a picture up?” Seb asked, almost hesitantly, looking straight ahead instead of at him.

He nodded. “Yeah, my sister. How about you?”

Seb seemed to hesitate then nodded tightly. “Yeah. I’ll show you it.”

When they got to the wall, however, Seb made no move to pick out one picture in particular but instead starting browsing all of them. Business first, John thought and followed the other man along.

He was almost concerned that he would see a picture of the young woman and be forced to break it to a loved one that she had died. He had given bad news before, of course he had, but he didn’t think he could destroy someone’s hope so completely like that. To be so uncertain whether your loved one was alive and then be told they had died would be… if it had happened to Harry he wasn’t sure he could cope with the guilt.

None of the faces on the walls matched up with those of the collectors or the collectees he had seen the day before. Thank goodness.

The new arrivals from the day before had obviously been there. He was certain one more picture from the mass was missing that had been two days before. There were also more pictures added to the end so Harry’s wasn’t the last one on the line anymore

Seb hesitated when he got to Harry’s picture and for a second John’s heart leapt up into his throat. Did Seb recognise her? Did he know where she was? But no, a second later he realised it was her name that had caught Seb’s attention, not her face.

“This your sister then?” Seb asked.

John sucked in a deep breath then released it slowly. “Yes. Harry.”

Seb turned to look at him. The colonel only ever seemed to have two modes from what John had seen; shark like grin or serious and focused. This was Seb’s serious face.

“You never know,” he said. “She could still be out there. There was a lot of chaos just after the Event. I’ve seen people reunited after just missing each other on the day or their phones being out of battery or simply them not realising anything had happened until hours later. She might still be found.”

John couldn’t speak, his throat had contracted, but his head seemed to move of its own accord giving a small shake.

“You never know,” Seb said insistently. “I mean where was she?”

“Chelmsford.”

It came out impossibly small, like he wasn’t the one saying it at all. As if maybe it wasn’t true. As if it was just a nightmare like the ones he had every night. As if the planes hadn’t fallen. As if the town hadn’t burned.

“Oh.”

There really wasn’t much more to say to that.

Seb walked a few feet back down the wall and nodded towards another picture. John obediently followed and looked at it. It was of a dark haired woman in her mid-thirties with a shy open mouthed smile as if she had been caught in the middle of laughing.

“That’s my sister,” Seb said, his voice sounding distant as if he was reading from an invisible script. “You know I was gutted when I realised I didn’t have a picture of her with the kids. Her git of a husband I couldn’t care less about but I felt like I should have one of her with the kids. Even though I know it would be pointless.” Seb pulled his gaze away from the picture and dropped it to the floor. “I met someone from their school a while back. Caretaker or something. Had been in a cupboard. He told me there were no survivors.” Seb paused, momentarily too caught up in his own memories to keep going. “But her, she could still be out there. After all there are thousands of people out there. Who’s to say she’s not one of them.” He turned and fixed John with a cold and focused stare. “Who’s to say your Harry isn’t one of them either.”

The words rang in John’s ear as, together, they walked back to… actually he wasn’t certain where they were walking to. He had been too distracted, his head too filled with the faces of the strangers on that wall who might be out there, the people he used to know who weren’t out there and the survivors on the streets and at the farm who would probably be better off if they weren’t out there. He hadn’t noticed where his legs were taking him and the same appeared to be true of Seb. It was only when he overheard Sherlock’s raised voice that he realised they had drifted, apparently unconsciously, in the direction of Sherlock’s lab and were right outside.

John stopped in his tracks and beside him, Seb also came to a halt, seemingly jolted out of his thoughts by the sudden stop.

“You’re going to leave them out there,” Sherlock was saying in a flat tone.

That matched up so closely with John’s thoughts he gasped. He took a step closer to the door out of curiosity and heard Seb do the same behind him.

“We can’t take on everyone you take a fancy to. We just don’t have the resources.” That was Sherlock’s brother. They were arguing about taking people in?

“Take a fancy to?” Sherlock sounded appalled by his brother’s words. John didn’t blame him.

“For the moment there is a kind of equilibrium. We need time to build up our stocks and our plans for the future. The winter will kill off most of them anyway; we’ll deal with the rest in the new year.”

Holmes said it plainly, as if talking about the weather or the latest football scores instead of the chilling statement it was.

“So you’ll leave the collectors to rule the streets?”

How did Sherlock sound so calm? How was he not shocked at his brother’s words?

“Don’t pretend you care, Sherlock. Not to me. This has temporarily piqued your interest but tomorrow you’ll be back to cloning bees or you’ll find another stray that catches your attention.”

That would be why. John felt sick.

“Hey,” Seb whispered, putting a hand on his shoulder.

John threw it off automatically and Seb withdrew it sharply. He couldn’t hear the Holmes brothers anymore, they were speaking too softly. Then he heard the elder Holmes very loudly, as if he was approaching the door. The door they were hovering very conspicuously outside of.

“Besides, I have the wellbeing of this institution and its people to consider and I won’t let even you interfere with that. Good day, Sherlock.”

Seb didn’t touch him this time but gestured very obviously for him to get away from the door. John backed away sharply just as Holmes appeared.

“Doctor,” the man said, giving first him a small nod, then Seb. “Colonel.”

As soon as Holmes started to walk away Seb jerked his head in the opposite direction and ordered,

“Let’s get a coffee.”


	8. Chapter 8

Sherlock set the soil analysis program running and then went to the security office to see Lestrade about his things. The detective inspector had already helped himself to a box of the nicotine patches and had sent the clothes down to laundry.

“When they’re ready have the dresses sent to my room and everything else sent to John’s.”

“All right,” said Lestrade, sounding doubtful. “But I don’t think they’ll suit you.”

“Nonsense,” said Sherlock. “I have it on good authority I have the legs for it.”

From her seat in the corner of the office, holding her cup of coffee in front of her like a barrier, Sally snorted. Sherlock was determined she wouldn’t get a rise out of him. After all, whose opinion was he going to trust? That of a woman who had been sniffing around, and shamelessly flirting with, Anderson of all people before the Event? Or that of John’s, a man who was smart enough to survive in London without wasting hardly any bullets, kept up with his deductions and recognised his brilliance. It hardly required his intellect to guess which one he favoured.

“Did you get the doctor a collar while you were out?” Sally asked, apparently having not noticed his decision to ignore her. “You’re already dressing him and he follows you around like a lost puppy.”

Sherlock turned and graced her with an insincere smile. “Just for that, you’re not getting a new dress.”

Sally scrunched up her face, disgusted. “As if I’d want one a freak like you picked out.”

“Or any chocolate digestives,” he added, picking up the bags and sweeping from the room.

He went back to his room and upended the tennis bag and one of the plastic carrier bags. He selected a few of the dolls and some of the more generic toys and stuffed them into the plastic bag along with the colouring pens, a few notebooks and one of the bags of ‘funsize’ chocolates. Finally he threw off his jacket, combed his hair as flat as he could without chemical assistance then, grabbing the bag, headed off in search of the temporary accommodation for the new civilians.

One of the labs had been turned into a temporary play area for the five children. Two women – neither of whom were clearly the biological mothers of any of the children – stood by chatting, while two seven year old boys played with toy cars that they must have brought with them, another boy on the cusp of adolescence played cards at a table, a ten year old girl sat underneath the table writing on loose sheets of paper and a three year old girl watched a DVD about a pink cartoon pig with huge fascination.

Sherlock tapped gently on the door causing the women and the two older children to look up at him.

“Hi,” he said, his friendly tone, his change in stance and the adjustments he had made to his appearance carefully disguising him from the man who had impatiently interrogated them the day before. “Can I come in?”

The children went back to what they were doing and the women gave him a wary look so he crept in and gave them all a shy smile.

“How’s it going?” he asked. “They driving you mad yet? Must be hard, Blue Zone isn’t exactly set up for kids.” He held up the bag. “I thought this would help.”

“It’s not much,” he said pulling out the toys, – the three year old immediately looked up and snatched a pink teddy bear – the notebooks and the colouring pens. “But you know what they used to say. Every little helps. Oh and,” he pulled out a box of earplugs and handed it to the woman with the largest bags under her eyes, “if you’re having trouble sleeping.”

The woman smiled apparently in spite of herself. “You’re a life saver.”

Sherlock shrugged. “We’re all in this together.” He started as if only noticing the two boys for the first time. “Hey!” he cooed. “What’s that you’ve got there?”

He sat cross-legged on the floor and asked the boys a few questions about their cars until he was satisfied that the women had tuned him out, gratified that someone else was taking a turn to keep the kids entertained for once. The older boy continued to watch him suspiciously out of the corner of his eye while still pretending to play cards but that couldn’t be helped.

“All right you two,” he said, letting his voice go back to its natural tone. “I’ve got a packet of chocolate bars here and I’ll give you each one if you tell me what I want to know.”

“No, you don’t,” one of the boys said.

Sherlock reached into the bag, tugged open the packet and showed them the goods.

“Those aren’t proper chocolate bars,” the other boy said. “They’re too small.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “I’ll give you two.” Both boys reached for the bag. “Ah, ah, ah. Not until I get my information. Now tell me, what did you think of the team who came to the university?”

Children were such good judges of character and absolutely wonderful spies. It cost him half of the chocolates, promises of the rest for further information and an excruciating twenty minutes in which he learnt more about Peppa Pig than he ever wanted to know, but he got a far more detailed picture of the mission from the university end of things than he could ever have gotten talking to adults. Case in point, the casual chat he started up with the two guardians afterwards was not half as illuminating. He left off talking to the older boy until last, having been watched like a hawk by him the entire time.

Sherlock dropped down into the chair opposite the boy. The boy gave him a bored glance, pulled together the cards which had been arranged for a game of fours, then, after a quick shuffle, dealt himself seven cards and Sherlock eight.

Sherlock gave his cards a quick perusal then selected one to place down next to the pile of remaining cards.

“You going to offer me chocolate as well?” the boy asked after a few minutes of silent playing.

“Would it work?” Sherlock asked picking up a card, placing it amongst the others in his hands then discarding another.

“My father always taught me never to take sweets from strangers,” the boy replied, snatching up a card only to drop it back down just as quickly.

“Your father’s dead.”

The boy didn’t react, only picked up the next card. “Even more reason.”

“What was your father’s name?”

“Anthony Wiggins.”

“And yours?”

The boy finally looked at him, peeking over the top of the cards held close to his face. “Anthony Wiggins.”

“The third.”

Anthony didn’t react, apparently neither impressed nor thrown by the deduction. He merely picked up a card, slotted it at the end of his hand then discarded one from the middle.

“What was your father’s subject?” Sherlock asked

“Maths.”

“So I should expect you to be very good at this.”

Anthony gave the nonchalant shrug of a practiced con artist.

“From the time the team arrived at the university to the time your group arrived back here did you see anyone make a phone call? Anyone from the team or from your group?”

Anthony made a show of considering the card he had picked up from the pile then delicately placed it down. “The colonel guy was always on the radio to base. Talked about the arrangements a lot. ETAs that sort of thing. Something to do with four oh seven seven. Other than him… Colonel asked Major Denny to make one of the calls. And I saw Private Fisher on the phone at one point. Couldn’t hear what he was saying.”

Without taking his eyes off his cards Sherlock slid two of the chocolate bars across the table. “I want you to keep an eye on Private Fisher for me.”

Anthony snorted. “If you think I’m tagging around after some soldier for sweeties you’ve got another thing coming.”

“What else have you got to do all day? It’ll save you from boredom.”

“I’m told school is the latest fashion.”

“I’m sure you can find the time.”

Anthony laid down his cards. Four aces and three queens. “Not for chocolates I won’t. I want a DS.”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes as his internal acronym dictionary quickly flicked through possible meanings. Anthony rolled his eyes before he reached a result.

“Nintendo. And games of course. It’ll save me from boredom.”

Sherlock considered this. “If you can get results-“

“And what, if he does squat I’m trekking after him for nothing? No chance. I want guarantees.”

“I’d have to go out and get it and I’m quarantined at the moment.”

“End of the week?”

“End of next week.”

“Then I’ll tell you what I got end of next week.”

“Deal.”

Anthony grinned and offered his hand. “Pleasure doing business with you.”

Sherlock shook it then stood up. He dropped his cards revealing the diamond straight he had been holding back for the previous six goes then walked out in search of John.

 

~

 

John took hold of the coffee that was placed in front of him and clung to it as if it were a lifeline. Seb dropped into the seat opposite.

They had picked a private table in the corner of the canteen away from the few other people enjoying a morning coffee break or a very late breakfast.

Seb sighed, took a sip of his coffee, then stared at the ceiling as if asking for divine inspiration.

“That,” he said after a while.

John waited but there didn’t seem to be more to come. The other man had a look of deep concentration on his face as if he was turning over the words they had heard in his head. John didn’t blame him, he was having trouble settling them in his own mind. He couldn’t quite match up the Sherlock from the last few days - who had laughed with him over dinner, broken into a collector’s house, taken him on an exciting chase, and then joked over tuna with coconut milk – with the man who would sit and acquiesce so quietly to the terrible things his brother had been saying.

“That,” Seb appeared to be having another attempt at language, “was Mycroft Holmes-”

Was it? That was the first time John had heard what the elder Holmes’ real name was. Sherlock hadn’t even told him what his brother’s name was? Did he really know anything about the man?

“-in a nutshell,” Seb finished almost lamely.

John raised his eyebrows. Seb shrugged.

“That’s just how he is. That stuff about an ‘equilibrium’, that’s how he thinks. _All_ the time.”

Seb scratched idly at the scar on his chin for a moment. John took a sip of his coffee, barely tasting it.

“To him,” Seb continued, “everything has a value and he’s got the balance sheet in his head. And people are just another resource with costs and benefits. Some people,” Seb gestured towards him with a tilt of his fingers, “you for instance, being a doctor and all, have very high benefits and he snatches them up when he can.”

John remembered what Mycroft had said the first time they’d met. About being currently worth more alive and well than dead. He hadn’t realised that that worth had been calculated in numerical terms. He closed his eyes as he let out a weary breath.

“Other people just get left where they are,” Seb said after waiting for John to look back at him. “For the winter to deal with them.” He added darkly. “It’s cold, and god knows how the man sleeps at night, but…” Seb shrugged again and stared at his coffee, “to be fair to the guy, you’ve just got to have a bit of that these days. There’s a finite amount of resources and they’ve got to be preserved. Some decisions have to be made and I, for one, am glad that Mycroft is the one to make them.” The words were said resignedly with the colonel avoiding his eyes as if ashamed of having to say them. “You and I deal with life and death on a daily basis but not on this scale. Not when thousands of lives hang on his slightest whim.”

Seb hesitated, taking a sip of his coffee. John followed suit. The smell of meat cooking floated from the kitchen. More people started to drift in and take seats although none near where they were sat.

When Seb continued it was in a slightly odd tone of voice.

“Especially when we know our sisters could be out there. It would kill us to make those choices.” The other man finally met John’s eyes again. “But Mycroft’s fine, he doesn’t have a heart to bother him. You can trust him.” The colonel snorted a laugh. “Not that you have a hell of a lot of choice on the matter. But at least he takes it all seriously. Sherlock on the other hand.” Seb leaned forward on the table. “Look, don’t get me wrong, I have nothing against the guy. I mean he’s sharp as a needle, comes out with the most amazing stuff. Well,” there was a flash of Seb’s usual grin. “I don’t understand a word of it but it always gets the guys down in research very excited. So there’s no case for nepotism here, the guy’s more than earned his place around here. It’s just he treats it like it’s a game,” the colonel sounded frustrated, “you know? It’s like when we go out into the city we make plans, we get the right equipment, we take a team, we at least tell bloody base where the hell we’re going. But him, well you’ve been out with him enough now.”

Sherlock hadn’t called until they had been five minutes away. Hadn’t taken anything for a night away but used what they had found. Had gone up against collectors when the only weapon had been John’s. Had Sherlock planned anything about that trip at all? Or had he been making it up as they went along?

“He doesn’t think- no,” Seb interrupted himself with a raised finger, “that’s not right. He does think, he thinks all the time. But he thinks like lightening, you can’t keep up with him.”

John certainly couldn’t deny that.

“And the instant he gets the idea to do or say something off he goes, nothing else matters. He wants to go somewhere, he’s gone.” Seb’s eyes flicked off to one side as if following where an imagined Sherlock had gone. “He wants something, he gets it. He takes a shine to someone, he picks them up and drops them when he’s done.”

John suddenly found it hard to swallow the mouthful of coffee he had taken.

“You heard Mycroft, today he’s arguing about collectors, tomorrow he’ll find himself a new stray to fawn over. Sherlock didn’t even defend himself, did you notice?”

He had noticed.

“Can’t deny it. You know, what we heard was probably a good thing, horrible as it sounds.” Seb rolled his eyes again. “It was Mycroft reining Sherlock in, stopping him from doing something stupid and risky. Mycroft is the only one who can keep Sherlock in check; he just ignores anyone else who tries. Like they’re all…”

Idiots?

“Beneath him. He acts above it all. That’s just him, that’s just how he works.” Seb placed his mug on the table and leant back in his chair. “Listen, I know this is all messed up, but we’re not exactly in the perfect situation right now. This is just… how it is. Plus, you know, at least if Sherlock’s bothering you right now he’ll get bored soon. Then you can settle in properly without being dragged all over the place at all hours of the night.” Seb suddenly looked at his watch then started to get up. “Speaking of which, you look knackered. I’ve got to go on duty but you should get some rest. I’ll see you around, yeah?”

“Yeah,” John said, placing his own mug of coffee down on the table and easing his fingers which were now stiff from clinging to it.

Seb showed off his usual shark-like grin, went to tap him on the shoulder then seemed to think better of it and simply walked away instead.

The canteen was starting to fill up with people coming in for lunch. The noise level started to rise, giving John a headache. He closed his eyes and willed everyone to keep their distance, give him some space to breath. He thought about going to bed, like Seb had suggested, but the idea of crawling under the covers and hiding from everything and everyone seemed too much like cowardice. Besides, it looked as though it was bangers and mash for lunch. He couldn’t remember the last time he had had sausages that hadn’t come out of a can. There was gravy too.

That settled it. You didn’t survive four months practically on the streets by turning down decent food. He was going to have something to eat, not think about anything, then go and get some much needed rest. Tomorrow would sort itself out. John nodded to himself as he got to his feet. Sounded like a plan.

A plan that was almost instantly derailed when he came back from collecting his plate to find Sherlock Holmes sitting in Seb’s recently vacated seat.

“I need you to assist me in talking to ops,” Sherlock said the instant John dropped into his chair. “To know exactly when the team would reach the junction the inside man would either have to be on the team or one of the operations officers receiving the information and relaying it back to the ambushers. I’ve got some of the team under observation already and I have my suspicions, but at this point it would be too risky to rule anyone out. So I need you to come to the operations office with me now.”

“What do you need me for?” he asked.

“You’re my cover. If I’m seen to be investigating the inside man will know I’m onto him. If I’m just showing you around then there’s nothing to fear. So I need you to appear curious, act stupid and ask lots of questions.”

John stared longingly at his plate of bangers and mash. The mash was obviously from a packet. With the gravy it looked like heaven.

“Can it wait until after I’ve had lunch?” he said, looking back up at Sherlock.

“There’s no time,” said Sherlock. “The shift we need to speak to finish at one.”

“Then can’t it wait until the morning? I’m tired and wouldn’t it be better to go when we’ll have more time?”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes as if annoyed that his logic made sense when it came to a conclusion Sherlock didn’t approve of.

“Fine,” Sherlock said eventually and sat back in the chair.

Relieved, John made a start on his lunch only to realise, halfway through chewing a piece of sausage, that Sherlock was staring at him. He swallowed.

“Was there anything else you needed me for?”

Sherlock said nothing.

“Were you going to get some lunch as well?”

“The meal this morning was adequate enough to keep me going,” Sherlock said blandly but with humour in his eyes.

John found a smile tug involuntarily at his lips. “You should thank the chef.”

“I wouldn’t go that far.”

John smiled into his potatoes, unable to fight it despite Seb’s words continuing to echo in his ears. “Go on then, what are you hoping to find out from ops tomorrow?”

John ate while Sherlock talked, starting with the speciousness of starting an investigation with preconceived ‘hopes’ before moving on to relating how Sherlock had somehow hired kids to spy for him. After John had finished Sherlock walked him to his room then leant against the doorway as they made arrangements to meet up again the next day. It was almost like going on a date. With a cold-hearted bastard. Allegedly. He’d have to see, wouldn’t he?

 

~

 

John re-joined him early the next morning just as he was setting the soil analysis to run again after the first set of results had turned out to be ridiculous. Very early in the morning actually, he thought as a glance of the clock told him it was just one AM. They weren’t due to meet for another five and a half hours. He re-examined his companion, this time taking the time to dwell on the meaning of the bags under his eyes, the hair still damp from a shower, hand shaking ever so slightly, mug of coffee clutched securely in said hands.

“You had a nightmare,” he said.

John looked away as if ashamed. “Yes.”

“And you came here.”

A shrug. “Where else was I supposed to go?”

A part of him curled up with glee that he was the first person John came to after a nightmare. Although he was a little annoyed he didn’t get to see more of the post-nightmare behaviour. Or actually get to observe the nightmare, that would be interesting.

“What was it about?” he asked, settling for any data he could get hold of.

“The usual,” John replied, obstinately.

Repressing a frustrated sigh he persisted, “Which is?”

John looked him in the eye, lifting his chin with defiance. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

No data and now John was annoyed. Sharp tone, body racked with tension, that just wouldn’t do. If the doctor was going to be convincing as the curious, bumbling tourist then he needed to do something to calm the man down. He cast around for a distraction, pausing briefly to glare at his soil analysis for being so preposterous – Dartford _and_ Thorpe, come on – before finally settling on his violin.

“Sit,” he said, sharply, reaching behind the desk to where he kept it.

By the time he had the case in his hand John’s irritation appeared to have faded into surprise and suspicion.

“Sit,” he said again, gesturing downwards to further exaggerate his demand since it had been clearly misunderstood the first time.

“You play the violin?” John said.

No, he just had one to look at.

“It helps me relax,” he said, taking the instrument out of its case and handling it fondly. “I’ll play you something if you sit down.”

John hurried to sit on a stool.

“No,” he said, suddenly hit with the thought that perhaps he could play John to sleep and then maybe he would be able to observe a dream after all. If only he had a sofa! Oh well, have to make do with the next best thing. “On the floor.”

“The floor?”

“Yes, there, by the wall. Hurry up.”

“This isn’t very relaxing so far,” John said but with humour in his voice as he lowered himself down.

Despite his selection of a number of French and Russian lullabies the violin solo failed to send John to sleep, but with the amount of appreciation the other man showed for the performance afterwards Sherlock found he didn’t mind so much. When John asked for an encore he launched into a few more jauntier pieces then finished off with an adaption of the first movement of Vivaldi’s Winter. When John said that that was his favourite he could not suppress the smile or the warmth that blossomed across his chest as he agreed.

After that John insisted that they go and get ‘a midnight snack’ as he called it and this time refused to accept Sherlock’s protestations of not being hungry, even when the food available turned out to be a pastry with some kind of unidentifiable meat in it.

He still found it amazing how easy it was to just chat with John over food. He had never really experienced that before. Dinners at home had always been intellectual, almost always relating to some new amazing achievement Mycroft had gained with that seven year advantage. At university the other students had always blabbered on about their dull social lives as if they weren’t utterly predictable. He had usually stayed out of those conversations, sometimes avoiding meals altogether. It had almost been a relief to discover that despite what he had constantly been told he could function perfectly well without food every day. After university there had been no one around to share meals with aside from the occasional grateful restaurateur. In those circumstances he had rarely said anything, simply soaked up the offered local gossip that was so useful to his profession.

With John there was give and take, jokes, teasing, storytelling and questions on both sides. He got the feeling that as long as he ate every meal with John, food would never be a chore again. It was as if the combination of John and food made time go faster. The end of the meal and their scheduled visit to ops almost came too soon.

There were a few objections when he barged straight into the operations office with John trailing behind, but he quickly dropped into a tour guide persona and started pointing out the features, showing off the equipment and introducing the staff. In Sherlock’s opinion John overdid the enthusiasm, after all it would hardly be convincing that he would waste his time with a gawking idiot. But the other man did his job and by engaging the staff in casual conversation and approaching the subject from a roundabout way John managed to get the staff talking about their actions at the time of the ambush. With several prompts the right questions got answered, the staff seemingly more willing to open up to John’s kind smile than they ever would to Sherlock.

Once he had all the data he needed he charged straight out of the office, intending to call Mycroft to get hold of the office logs so he could compare the testimonies with the official records. However, John said he had to check in with the Infirmary. Sherlock considered denying him permission but reasoned that since he was just going to be running over the records for the next couple of hours, John’s continual presence wasn’t actually necessary. They could catch up later.

“Fine,” he said. “I’ll come by later and we can have lunch. Oh, and you can have this back.”

He held out the object he had wrestled away from electronic decon team the previous afternoon. It was a Nokia N97 phone with scratch marks around the charging portal and an engraving to someone who was not John. It had been found zipped into a hidden pocket at the very bottom of the doctor’s duffle bag.

John stared at it as if he didn’t recognise it. The other man reached towards it before hesitating and giving Sherlock an examining look.

Oh for- what was it with John and phones he offered the man? What was he supposed to have done to them all?

Eventually John’s hand crossed the remaining space and grasped hold of the offered mobile. The doctor turned it over in his hands, tentatively running his fingers over it as if worried it would vanish.

“Electronics always take longer to go through decon,” Sherlock said. “It’s fully charged and connected to the network.”

“Thank you,” John said, sounding awed.

“It was your sister’s,” Sherlock continued. “You wouldn’t have kept it if it wasn’t of personal significance so it stands that she gave it to you, even if she did only do so to get rid of it after she left her wife. Disagreements over her alcoholism I would suspect.”

“Yeah,” John said quietly.

“The number’s still the same, so you can give it to the Infirmary for them to use to get hold of you if you like. There are one or two black spots here and there but in general the signal is quite good across the whole Enclave so I should be able to contact you whenever I need you.”

“Right, of course.” John finally looked back up at him, the emotion having gone from his face leaving the firm, shuttered expression. “I’d better.” John waved vaguely in what was probably meant to be the general direction of the Infirmary.

With that sorted, Sherlock nodded and, walking away, pulled out his own phone to begin the onerous task of texting his brother for the logs.

When he got back to the laboratory the soil analysis had finished again and was _still_ showing Thorpe and Dartford. Frustrated he set about cleaning the entire machine from top to bottom. There had to be some kind of cross contamination, perhaps with those seedlings the team had brought back a fortnight ago. Or perhaps there was a glitch in the machine.

A result showing pollen from the Dartford area should mean that the ambushers were River Trolls after all and that they set up the ambush to make the Enclave believe that there were more collectors north of them then there actually were for some obscure and utterly mysterious reason of their own devising.

Pollen from Thorpe, on the other hand, matched up with his own predictions of another group from South West London. Okay so Thorpe itself was a wreck – everything that close to Heathrow was still burning – but if the collectors were in that general area it would match up with all of his data; all his maps, trends and distributions.

So which was it?

Finally satisfied as to the state of the machine he set the analysis running again and, determined to stay put until the idiot thing finished properly, set about reading the logs.

It was some time later when he burst through the doors to the Infirmary, John’s expression of disapproval not quite covering over the immediate reaction of pleased surprise before he had the opportunity to spot it and file it away.

Dodging the nurse who attempted to head him off he strode straight up to John and grabbed his arm.

“You have to see this,” he said, tugging just hard enough to illustrate his intension but not hard enough that John would feel pushed and try to resist out of pride.

He must have gotten his calculations wrong because John shook him off and said,

“I can’t, I’ve got things to do here.”

“This is important.”

“So’s this. Everyone else’s quarantine runs out tomorrow and they’ve been running me through procedure and instructions-“

“-so they can call skitter off back to cushy Green Zone leaving you in charge.”

If John was permanently assigned to Blue Zone Infirmary that would be brilliant; the other man would be so much more accessible and have much more time available to assist him.

“Sort of,” John said, running a hand through his hair. “There’s just so much to get done-“

“You’re allowed to take time off for lunch,” he said, insistently.

John frowned. “Yes and I did. Three hours ago.”

Without him?

John gave him a bewildered look. “Sherlock, it’s five PM.”

Oh. Was it really? Living indoors most of the time had really messed up his internal clock.

“Couldn’t you have waited?”

The small smile the doctor gave him could only have been described as fond. He decided to press his advantage.

“They’ll still be here in the morning and you’ve been up since close to midnight so aren’t you due another break?”

“Well,” John said, looking thoughtful.

It was all the weakening he needed so this time when he pulled on John’s arm the doctor came with him, still looking as if he were trying to make his mind up. Really, if the other man just left the thinking to him it would be much easier all round.

Ignoring the calls of Mister Wearing as they exited the Infirmary he hurried John along the corridors to the lab. He kept his hand on John’s arm the whole time but it didn’t take much pressure to persuade the doctor to come with him. It was so easy to tell that this was what John really wanted to do when it came down to it. It was harder to tell why exactly that caused a warm feeling to unfurl in the bottom of his belly.

Once they got to the laboratory he manoeuvred John into the seat in front of the screen that showed the soil analysis results and gestured to the map of Greater London with its two blinking spots. John regarded it with apparent interest for a moment then looked back at him expectantly.

He sighed. “Thorpe _and_ Dartford,” he said waving a hand to express the obviousness. “At first I thought it was a mistake but I’ve run the test six times now and the same result has come up every time. Thorpe _and_ Dartford.” He started to pace. “They must have originated from Thorpe – anyone from Dartford would have had to have circled the entirety of London before coming to the crime scene to get these results – but travelled via the Dartford crossing. That is why I dismissed it as more likely to be cross contamination before; the River Trolls would never let another group of collectors use the crossing, so how did this group manage it? Did they get special permission? Some kind of bargain? Trade? Alliance? Collectors are fiercely competitive and territorial. If some of them have actually started to get along then that is very, very bad. Whoever is organising this is clever, very, very clever. They’re not just trying to control us, they’re trying to control everyone out there. Manipulate what we think so they can put their plan into action, uninhibited.”

Stopping mid stride he spun to face John to gauge his reaction to his outburst. The other man was staring at him, wide eyed with shock and, it seemed, a little admiration.

“So what’s their plan?” John asked

He lowered himself onto a stool. “I don’t know,” he said. “But the best way to find out is to get to their inside man.”


	9. Chapter 9

After three days of constant action it was odd how quickly things quietened down. There was a bit of a flurry the day after his return with the patient and staff transfers between Blue and Green Zones but after that a strange hush seemed to settle over Blue Zone.

It put him on edge, constantly feeling as though he was waiting for something. Perhaps it was simply because he was caught up in Sherlock’s investigation, which had stalled until the inside man made his move. Perhaps it was because he was still waiting for Sherlock to drop him, just as Seb said he would. Just like he had thought Sherlock had done when he didn’t show up for lunch the day before.

Not that Sherlock’s interest was showing any signs of letting up. The other man instead developed a habit of simply showing up at the Infirmary when he wanted John’s attention, refusing to leave no matter how busy John was, and insulted anyone who tried to get him to move on. John developed the corresponding habit of giving in and just going with the other man after about half an hour of being stared intently at. Still, there were worse fates than sitting put while Sherlock paced up and down, extrapolating on his latest experiment with wild gestures and plucked thoughts and conclusions seemingly at random from the air. Sometimes it was actually quite fun. Other times he was just grateful for the distraction.

Take, for example, the third day after their trip to Cranham. It was an unusual day as it wasn’t Sherlock who showed up at ten o’clock to drag him away, but Helen. It turned out he had remarkably managed to spend seventy-two hours in one place and his own quarantine was up. Now Tom and Jack wanted to show him the other infirmaries and introduce him to the medical staff he hadn’t yet been able to come into contact with.

He found he was quite looking forward to it as Helen led the way into Green Zone. He had never been one to shirk from new challenges and hoped meeting the rest of the staff would make it feel like he was finally part of a team again. It almost felt momentous to wave his newly updated wristband across the door sensor and have the green doors unlock in front of him. Then he opened them and the change was instant.

People. The first time he had seen Blue Zone it had seemed busy to him but compared to Green Zone the place had been practically deserted. It must have been a change of shift or the start of a school day or a holiday or a special occasion or _something_ because there was no way this many people could be compressed into this tiny a space, jostling past each other, breathing in each other’s air for so long a time without going mad.

His breathing sped up, his heartbeat thundered, his brain felt like it was being attacked at all sides by the sense of wrong, bad, panic, danger and there was nothing he could do to stop it.

People were shouting; laughing. Children were screaming. Why were they screaming so loud? Running up and down the corridors and-

Suddenly he couldn’t see them anymore. He couldn’t see anything except a white shirt in front of him.

He realised he had pressed his hands against his ears and he eased them away but this time the sound of the crowd was being pushed out by a deep voice speaking to him.

“Did I ever tell you, John, about the time I saved twins from prison because I realised they were both in hospital while one of them was having a sex change operation at the time of the murder?”

Sherlock didn’t touch him, just stood in front of him blocking out everyone else, including Helen. John straightened up as the tale of the innocent twins wafted over him and his breathing evened out. When Sherlock moved backwards he followed, unwilling to let his shield get more than a couple of feet away. They continued at a slow pace as Sherlock reeled out the most ridiculous deductive leaps until he called him out on it at which point the other man just seemed pleased as punch for the opportunity to expound on them. They were in the middle of an argument that Sherlock couldn’t possibly have seen the distinctive brown flecks in the girl twin’s eyes after she knocked off her sunglasses for only a couple of seconds when he stopped in shock at the realisation they had they had reached the Green Zone Infirmary.

Suddenly he was overwhelmed with shame. How many people had seen him lose control like that? He was supposed to be a soldier and a doctor and he just had a panic attack because of a crowded corridor? Helen had witnessed it and had probably already told everyone. They were all looking at him warily. They were going to treat him like a bomb, weren’t they? Pity him. Fear him. Oh this was going to be awful. And then there was Sherlock. What must Sherlock think of him?

He was sure the crowd of people in the Infimary were staring at him as they entered. After what felt like a lifetime under their gaze one of the doctors stepped forward and introduced himself as Doctor Richard Worthing, Oncology. He tried to smile and act vaguely normal as Richard introduced him to the nurses who were also strangers to him and then his tour began.

As it turned out there were five subzones in Green Zone, each with its own infirmary. B and D Zone infirmaries were barely more than doctor’s offices. E Zone was the next biggest with a large ward and a selection of treatment rooms, much like the Blue Zone Infirmary. A Zone was where most of the families were located so the A Zone Infirmary was more like a family clinic with a paediatric ward and a specialised maternity unit – which, he was told, currently attended to five pregnant women and including one who was due in just a couple of weeks and would be the Enclave’s first birth. C Zone contained the biggest and main infirmary and as such was generally referred to as ‘the hospital’. There was a further infirmary in Red Zone, small but as well-equipped as the others so that in an emergency, when the highest quarantine completely isolated Red Zone from the rest of the Enclave, the inhabitants could still get proper medical treatment. Red Zone was apparently where all the VIPs lived. The ‘last vestiges of the British government’ Sherlock had talked about.

As John was guided around he was certain he wasn’t imagining that people were keeping a close eye on him. In case he made another scene, most likely. He got the feeling that the other doctors had intended to give him a proper and full guide of the entire Enclave but had been put off, either by fear of overwhelming or overtaxing him, or by the continuing presence of Sherlock who hovered constantly close to hand like an unsubtle bodyguard.

They finished off in Red Zone and Richard was just suggesting they go grab some lunch when Sherlock interrupted.

“If you’re quite finished then John and I will be getting along, we have plenty to do.”

Sherlock gestured towards John with an outstretched arm before walking in the opposite direction to the main entrance.

Curiosity piqued, John quickly thanked Richard for the tour, and gave the usual plaintive about how good it was to finally meet, then followed after Sherlock who had disappeared out a door at the back of the Infirmary.

What followed felt like an expedition through the labyrinth rather than a tour of a base as Sherlock took side doors, random corridors, seemingly hidden stairwells, short cuts and through ways across offices and labs, always staying a few paces ahead while pontificating on the surroundings so John had to run to keep up. At one point, with no explanation, he was made to dress up in a hazmat suit before entering a lab, saying a quick hello to Doctor Hansa Chandri who was examining irradiated animal cells then immediately leaving. Doctor Chandri had just shrugged as if it was a normal occurrence, which from what he had seen of Sherlock it probably was.

A yellow door led to a set of steps down into what was unmistakably a dairy. It was the glass door leading to a fridge filled to the brim with vats of milk that gave it away really. Although John would admit the odd moo coming from behind a side door helped a little.

Sherlock introduced Matt ‘Head of Cows’ and pulled up a stool. He followed suit and was surprised a moment later when they were offered ‘fresh’ cheese sandwiches. He genuinely couldn’t remember the last time he had had real butter and the cheese was the best he had ever tasted. Before he knew it he had eaten three large sandwiches and Matt was offering him more. While he ate, and Sherlock nibbled on a single sandwich, Sherlock and Matt chatted. Matt shared with Sherlock an enthusiasm for experimentation. He was, apparently, studying the effects of variables such as cow feed and music on the quality of milk. John suggested that Sherlock should play violin to the cows but Matt laughed and said they had tried that but Sherlock had gotten bored and then ‘experimental’ and was now banned from any face to face contact with the cows.

“With all the stuff I keep hearing about you,” John said after they had said goodbye and Sherlock had pulled him away, no doubt in the direction of more labs, “it was nice to meet someone who actually seems to like you.”

“We discuss experimental methods, the same as I would do with any of the scientists here,” Sherlock said disinterestedly.

“And do they all make you cheese sandwiches?”

“No, but then most don’t have a large supply of cheese to hand.”

John chuckled. “So where to next? Who do you know with a large supply of something for dessert to hand?”

Sherlock frowned and stopped. “If you wanted dessert Matt also does ice-cream-“

John held up his hands. “No, no, I’m fine. Just… where to next?”

“Not tired yet?” Sherlock asked.

“Not bored of me yet?” John shot back and instantly regretted it.

But Sherlock just smirked and took off once more.

Later he suspected that it was his ‘incident’ in the corridor that resulted in him rarely working at the other infirmaries, or it could have been that they simply preferred him where he was. Either way, he found he hardly left Blue Zone. Except for Tom’s football practices of course. Apparently he needed to do far more than have a panic attack to have any chance of interfering with the surgeon’s hopes for sporting glory.

Actually, although he would never confess it, he quite liked the practices. Not for the sport – rugby was definitely more his game – but for the company. Tom might have been a pain in the arse but Jack (Surgery with Tom, his two daughters and energy burst from an asteroid) seemed a nice guy, Richard (X-Ray, his life partner and he hadn’t really thought about it) was friendly enough and the fifth member of the team, a male nurse called Sam Drapper (The toilet, four sisters and aliens) was a joker and a good laugh.

Outside of the medical staff he didn’t speak to many people. He saw Lestrade from time to time, once notably when the ex-policeman had broken a toe playing football (“Just like David Beckham then!” “If only you could score like Beckham,” Sally Donovan, one of the few female players in the five-a-side tournament, had commented) but usually just in passing in the corridor. Then there was Seb, who he was beginning to be convinced was nocturnal.

Every morning, no matter how early, when nightmares woke him and drove him to the canteen in search of coffee, he would find Seb there, sat at the table closest to the drinks area with a far too bright for that time of the morning shark-like grin on his face. Every morning Seb would make some joke about how awful he looked, which to be fair in the mornings was almost certainly true, and then they would chat over glorious caffeine about life before the Event, life after the Event and all kinds of apparently random subjects. Naturally Sherlock came up fairly frequently.

“Himself still hanging around then?”

“Seems to be,” he replied, as astonished by that as Seb seemed to be.

“It’s strange,” the colonel said, as if musing aloud. “He brings in people all the time and usually he hasn’t been in the door five minutes before he’s forgotten their name. But you,” Seb shook his head. “He’s taken a shine to you. Must have seen something he likes. I don’t think you’re ever going to be rid of him until he decides it, whether you like it or not. Still,” Seb paused to take a sip of his coffee. “Try not to let him suck you completely dry. Once he’s moved on you can settle in properly. You might as well enjoy the ride while it’s there and Sherlock can be quite a rollercoaster, let me tell you.”

“You sound like you’ve got personal experience.”

“I just know the type,” Seb said, grin firmly back in place.

John was on the verge of asking who when Seb abruptly changed the subject and started asking about his time in Afghanistan. Figuring Seb probably didn’t want to talk about whoever it was he let the matter drop.

The main person he spent his days with, naturally, was Sherlock. There was no real escaping the man.

Without exception his afternoons began to fill up with Sherlock’s experiments, Sherlock’s investigations, stories of Sherlock’s old cases, dinner with Sherlock, DVDs with Sherlock, evenings in Sherlock’s presence just reading a book.

He tried going to a few of the evening events in Green Zone but found the crowds left him on edge and unable to enjoy himself. That was until Sherlock started to invite himself along and showed him the secret routes in and out of the other zones so they could make their way straight to the relevant hall while avoiding the masses. That was definitely worth putting up with Sherlock’s pithy comments about the talent of the musicians or the standard of the play writing. After a while he started to look forward to the comments as much as he did whatever the entertainment was. There was nothing like watching a group of zoologists put on an amateur dramatic version of Miss Marple while a genuine detective whispered faults, secrets and comparisons to real murders in his ear.

It was weird but it was fun. He knew he shouldn’t get used to it but after months of hell who could blame him for enjoying it while he could?

~

 

Sherlock knew John didn’t really mind when he scheduled their afternoon out to Anthony’s ‘DS’ on an afternoon when the doctor usually played football no matter how much John pretended to look annoyed. John was too kind hearted, that was the problem. No, he was certain John didn’t really want to be dragged away every other afternoon to play that moronic sport with those ignoramuses that called themselves medical professionals, especially when he was able to provide a much more interesting diversion. After all, John would always complain over dinner about being exhausted or how bad they were – which was true, he had been to their games. But no matter how many excuses he tried to provide John would always go so as not to upset ‘the other guys’.

It was equal parts infuriating and oddly endearing.

So he knew he was doing John a favour when they went out for the afternoon. After all, who would prefer to kick a ball around when there was the city to explore?

They spent a happy couple of hours rooting through the pillaged remains of a Gamestation and discussing which games Anthony would like. John laughed at his bafflement at how anyone could find a virtual dog entertaining then asked whether kids were ‘still into Pokémon these days’. He demanded an explanation then stopped John when after two words he could tell it was going to be deathly boring. He snorted indignantly at the ludicrous claims of the ‘brain training’ which made John giggle and first recommend a mystery solving game before suggesting that they should get a ‘DS’ for him as well so they could see who solved the mystery first, him or Anthony.

Because of the quarantine he couldn’t go to see Anthony as soon as they got back and John couldn’t go to whatever pointless activity he had planned for that evening, so the doctor suggested they watch a film together.

“Maybe I’ll see if they’ve got the Pokémon movie,” John said.

“It’s a film as well?” Sherlock said, horrified.

John laughed – something that still never failed to make him feel unnaturally proud – and said,

“Fine, fine, Bond it is.”

‘Bond’ turned out to be the most ludicrously plotted excuse for far too many explosions ever put to film, but sitting back on his bed, leaning in close enough to John so that they could both see the small portable DVD player screen while John expounded on his favourite bits and ate chocolate digestives, he couldn’t quite bring himself to be bothered. When he revealed to John that that had been the first ‘Bond’ film he had ever seen John threw a biscuit at him and then proceeded to use up a week’s worth of both of their entertainment allocations to get hold of more of the ‘Bond’ films.

Sherlock fetched some dinner back from the canteen – which wasn’t strictly allowed but he had never let a little thing like rules bother him in the past – and then they sat down to ‘Bond’ after ‘Bond’ until John was leaning so heavily against his side he thought the other man was on the verge of falling asleep.

John was remarkably warm. Almost excessively so. Not in a bad way, no, it was rather nice actually. Comforting. Perhaps there was something about external heat stimuli that relaxed the muscles on that side of his body; much like ‘deep heat’ packs were used on sore backs. Perhaps if he were able to measure the exact temperature John produced he could replicate it for later study and use it next time he felt tense. Unless he could persuade John to snuggle up to him next time he felt tense. The idea held a certain appeal.

He sunk down into John’s warmth then found it very difficult to suppress a groan of disappointment when John jolted upwards in an obvious attempt to forestall sleep.

“What time is it?”

“Six AM.”

John let out a low groan and rubbed at his eyes with the heels of his hands. “I have to be in the Infirmary in a couple of hours. I need coffee.”

“You should rest,” said Sherlock as a brilliant idea struck him. “You could sleep here if you want.”

John moved the DVD player off his legs and stretched. “Can’t. People to do, things to see.”

“Dull,” Sherlock said, leaning back on the bed then frowning at the rapidly cooling spot beside him.

“I’ll see you later,” John said, clambering to his feet.

“After I’ve spoken to Wiggins the third.”

John responded with a simple nod then walked out the door.

Sherlock twisted until he was stretched the full length of the bed and regarded the ceiling for a moment. He could still feel the residual heat from John down his left side. Surely it should have dissipated by now? Instead it tingled slightly. Should it tingle? Wasn’t that a symptom of a heart attack? Surely he would notice if he was having one of those? He checked his pulse. Slightly elevated but not to a dangerous level. How odd.

Tucking the symptoms away for further examination, he swung his legs off the bed and stood up. He still had some time until the quarantine ended and it was far past time that he updated the London Report.

Nine hours later and he was outside the main hall in A Zone – which, for the majority of the day, was used as the school – waiting for Anthony to get out of lessons. As soon as the boy appeared he signalled him to follow with a jerk of his head. Once they had retreated to a secluded spot, he had handed over the ‘DS’ and Anthony had made a small noise halfway between approval and surprise at the game choice, they got down to business.

“I’ve caught Fisher slipping away to make phone calls about three times in the last two weeks,” Anthony said. “Goes just round the corner from the wall, near that lab with the rose patterned glass panel in the door. Always uses a black Samsung phone. Think it’s an S five two hundred. Never makes the phone call from his room. Talks to someone called Petey. Except one time when he had to ask someone to put Petey on. Sounded really irritated until Petey must have come on because then he was all ‘Hey Petey, are you ok?’ like he normally is. After the phone calls he kind of looks… What’s the word? I dunno, like it’s all inevitable and he’s not happy about it.”

“Desolate?”

“’s good a word as any, I suppose.”

Sherlock nodded, letting the data process and filter through his mind.

“I need you to get hold of his phone,” he said, taking out his notebook and writing down a network address. “Make sure it’s the one he makes the calls from and use the WAP to connect to this.” He tore out the page and handed it over. “The tracking software will download automatically so you can give the mobile back straight after you’ve done that.”

Anthony grinned. “I assume you’re prepared to pay?”

“Games, like we agreed. Once I’ve got confirmation that it’s working.”

“They better be good ones.”

“I assure you a great deal of effort was put into their selection.”

Sherlock pulled out his phone and texted as he walked back to Blue Zone. John arrived after he had been standing at the wall for exactly two minutes, and one minute forty-six seconds after he had found the photo he was looking for.

“Private Aaron Fisher,” he said, showing John the picture of two young men, one early twenties, one late teens, and a woman in her late thirties. “And his brother, Peter Fisher. Probably half-brother. Hasn’t really been in contact since their mother died. This photo is a couple of years out of date but see where it’s been folded back? It was folded on the wall to hide himself but show his mother and brother so that anyone who saw the picture would be able to tell immediately who was the Peter Fisher written below. No name for the mother, she must have died already. He couldn’t just put up a photo of his brother alone because he didn’t have one, at least not a recent one. This must be the most recent photo he has so he’s been out of touch with his brother for some time before the Event. But someone else found Peter before Private Fisher could. That’s why Private Fisher has been passing on information; they have his brother.”

John was staring at him, mouth open a little and eyes blinking in a way that made the doctor look like a fish.

“That’s amazing,” John said.

Sherlock was almost certain he beamed at that. He didn’t smile but he could feel his pride like heat in his head.

John suddenly seemed to gain control of his expression and the other man’s face rearranged itself into a firm, soldierly one.

“So these collectors in… Thorpe or wherever. They’re holding Fisher’s brother to ransom for information.”

“Not necessarily. There’s a small possibility that Peter Fisher is one of the collectors himself and the Private is talking to him out of some sense of duty. I’ll know for certain when Anthony gives me more information but the brief description of the phone calls so far suggest the former.”

“So what do we do now?”

“Nothing. We wait for someone to make a move. That will happen very soon.”

He pulled out his phone and sent Mycroft a quick text.

 

Message Sent

Private Aaron Fisher = Fall guy. Expect him to be dropped very soon.

SH

 

He tucked the phone away and looked back at John.

“Coming?”

 

~

 

It was a dead end. There had never been a dead end before but then he didn’t even know where he was anymore. He had been in the Enclave, hadn’t he? He turned to go back the way he had come but it was blocked as well. He spun to head towards Chelmsford but there was a pile of rubble too high to climb. The way to London was blocked as well. He was trapped and the shadow men were starting to crowd in, mocking him, screaming, crying. He couldn’t get away. He didn’t know where he was. He beat at the walls, begging someone to let him out, get him out of there, crying and shouting as the men only got louder. Covering his ears, he begged them to shut up, to go away, to please please just let him go. He pounded and screamed and-

Light.

The change in air hit him like a hammer and woke him so suddenly he had to throw out his arms to steady himself. He was stood in the doorway of his room, hands braced against the walls, staring out into the light of the corridor into the indecipherable face of Sherlock Holmes. Behind Sherlock stood two women who he had spoken to a few times because they had rooms just down the corridor. They looked halfway between concerned and absolutely terrified.

His eyes slid shut and the only thing that kept him from staggering backwards was his iron grip on the doorframe.

Oh god, how much of that dream had he actually done? He had clearly been up on his feet. Had he been running around? Shouting? Pounding at the walls. Had they heard everything? He wanted to crawl into a ball and never been seen again. He wasn’t fit to be around humans. What had Sherlock been thinking when he brought him here?

He took a deep breath then was horrified when it came out shaking. No. He was not going to cry. Not in front of Sherlock.

He took another deep breath then let it out very slowly. Another and he was ready to open his eyes. Sherlock hadn’t moved but the women had started to shuffle their feet as if wondering if they could go yet. When he let go of the doorframe and straightened up his legs only shook a little.

He realised he should say something but he couldn’t get his vocal cords to work which was probably some form of irony right there. Sherlock appeared to pick up on this and turned to the women and said,

“Go away.”

One fled immediately. The other looked indignant and seemed like she was going to object, but quailed under a scathing glare from Sherlock. She left pretty quickly after that and Sherlock’s attention snapped back to him. He would have complained of the rudeness but was just relieved that they had left. Now he really, really wanted Sherlock to bog off as well so he could collapse and cringe himself to death.

“They fetched me because you were shouting,” Sherlock said, his tone low but neutral as if it was just an interesting piece of information rather than his abject humiliation.

That was exactly what he had been afraid of. He didn’t want to know what he had been shouting; whether it had been the pleading of the dream him or the screaming of the shadow men or something else altogether.

Why had they fetched Sherlock? Oh right, because he belonged to Sherlock.

He only realised he had said that out loud when an odd expression flickered momentarily across Sherlock’s face.

“I’m fine,” he said. “Go back to bed.”

“I wasn’t in bed,” the other man said immediately.

He frowned. “You weren’t- how long has it been since you slept?”

Sherlock opened his mouth but John wasn’t going to let any excuse, any pity, stop him with this. He stuck out his arm to point down the corridor and said, in his most commanding tones,

“Bed. Now.”

If he had expected Sherlock to retreat contritely he was sorely mistaken as instead Sherlock grabbed his wrist and held it securely. He was shocked enough that he didn’t pull it out of the other man’s grip before he realised what Sherlock was doing. The man was taking his pulse.

Sherlock gave a considering hum then abruptly dropped his wrist and walked away. John watched him go, too taken aback to do anything else.

He only got a grip on himself when the tiny craving in the back of his mind that always surfaced post-nightmare started to demand coffee.

Seb was in the canteen when he entered, as usual, with his wide grin. And there was the coffee, glorious in its caffeination. His eyes closed as the first sip sent a jolt of energy through his system. He knew it was impossible for caffeine to work that quickly but right now it felt like that and who was he to argue with something he craved so badly.

“You look worse than usual,” Seb said as he sat down.

“Has anyone ever told you that you’re such a charmer,” John replied.

The colonel threw back his head and laughed.

As much as he enjoyed his time with Sherlock – and he really had to admit he did enjoy it; there were times when he had never laughed so much – it was nice to just hang out with someone sane for a change. Besides, he and Seb had so much in common. There was the army, obviously, but there was also a shared love of rugby – union, not league – an enthusiasm for real ale – Seb called the demise of it the biggest tragedy of the Event – and the belief that The Godfather: Part II was the best of the series. Seb didn’t like Bond, this was the source of one of their few arguments with raised voices and two broken plates which John immediately apologised for; Seb didn’t.

Seb had grown up in a town John had only vaguely heard of but which, based on the colonel’s reaction to any of his throwaway comments, seemed a lot like Chelmsford. Their sisters sounded similar too. Both were older and pains in the arse about it, both had worked for the local council and both had gotten so drunk at their respective weddings they had ended up flashing the reception party. John had a feeling Harry would have liked Seb’s sister. Enough to have a go at any rate, despite the husband and two kids.

They didn’t mention the kids. It was a banned topic of conversation liable to induce a dark look and an awkward silence. The same with John’s nightmares. Their respective work wasn’t an off limits subject matter but they still very rarely brought it up. John because his work was either boring or subject to doctor patient confidentiality. He wasn’t sure why Seb didn’t talk about what he did all day. He knew when the soldiers went out on assignment - Sherlock would almost always get hold of the samples or the information they brought back – but Seb never brought it up. Except perhaps to say,

“Yesterday was a hellish day; I could sleep for a month.”

Or make some comment about the weather outside and the state of the survivors.

It was, therefore, a bit surprising when that morning, just as they were finishing their coffees, Seb brought up the subject of his team. What made it more shocking was just how awkward the colonel looked to mention it.

“It’s…” Seb stared at the empty mug on the table. “It’s probably nothing. I know it’s not paranoia if they really are out to get you but… well, maybe I’m just looking too hard for something that isn’t there. But… well, we’ve had a few close calls lately, and what with that ambush two weeks ago, well… No, I shouldn’t be saying anything.”

“What is it?” John asked, a little too eagerly.

Seb raised his eyes and narrowed them. “Do you know something? You’d tell me if you did, wouldn’t you, doc? Because…” Seb lowered his voice, “I’m not sure if I can fully trust my team. Do you know anything?”

John kept his face entirely straight. “Anything about what?”

“About…” Seb sat back. “I’m being mad aren’t I? Been shut in this place too long, I’ve got cabin fever. Seeing ghosts. Making up spies.” Seb shook his head. “No, forget it. Forget I said anything.”

John nodded and tried not to think about Private Fisher, destroying Seb’s team from the inside. The ultimate betrayal of a soldier. Turning on your country was one thing, but going against your fellow soldier, the people relying on you to watch your back and hold your life day in and day out, that was unforgiveable.

 

~

 

Ostensibly they were outside to get some cuttings. The first year after the Event was key to discovering which plants were growing and what affect the new conditions were having on them. As the seasons progressed the different stages of development had to be monitored to gain the full picture. A military team had been sent out of the city to collect samples from the countryside, with its oddly selective vegetation destruction, while Sherlock and John were getting the London samples. Supposedly.

They did actually have to get the samples, but the real reason they were outside was because it had been two weeks since the last time Sherlock had seen the city and that had only been the short trip to the shopping centre in Vauxhall. He needed a clearer picture to make sure the Report was fully up to date. That was why they were going through allotments and communal gardens in east London, rather than the more obvious parks in the West End.

It was raining, which tended to keep the collectors away and most of the gangs inside. It brought everyone else onto the streets though, taking advantage of the only running water they could get their hands on. Sherlock spotted one man, stark naked, standing underneath the downpour of a drain pipe, washing all over with shower gel. Others were collecting the rainwater in plastic containers, watching the two of them walk by with suspicious eyes, crouched low like animals, ready to grab the bottles and flee if they got too close.

They took a shortcut through a school and cut through what had once no doubt once been a light filled, modern building but was now an empty shell of debris and windswept detritus. They were just passing through a reception area with a sideless staircase leading up to the overhanging second level when a shot rang out.

John grabbed him and pulled him behind an overturned table beneath the overhang before he could triangulate the trajectory of the bullet.

“Stay low,” John commanded.

“Upstairs,” Sherlock said, “left-hand side, by the maths display. Double-barrelled shotgun.”

“There’s another on the right,” John said.

As if in confirmation another shot, this time from that direction, hit the floor just in front of their makeshift barricade.

There were two clicks, obviously both men reloading.

“We need better cover,” John said.

“We need them to stop firing. Hello!” he raised his voice. “We’re just passing through, we mean no harm.” He lowered his voice so only John could hear. “Two men, both with shotguns with ammo, so cautious. Not gang members, not the sort to start firing unless they were threatened. We weren’t threatening them- We weren’t threatening you,” he called out. “Why are you shooting at us?”

“You stay away from us, we’re serious!” Liverpudlian accent, young, early twenties from the right hand side.

“You could have let us just pass through, we would never have seen you.”

“Yeah and you’d nick all our supplies?”

“We’re not interested in your supplies.”

Two more shots rang out in quick succession.

“Not good?” he asked John.

“Bit unlikely.”

“Where did they even get double-barrelled shotguns in London? Why pick guns with limited capacity when they could have picked up an automatic weapon off of any dead soldier in London? Unless they were in the countryside. Farmers, or got them off of farmers, preparing themselves. But why didn’t they- Why didn’t you stay in the countryside?” he raised his voice again. “If you’re smart enough to arm yourselves then you must have realised that life in the countryside is far more sustainable, so why did you come back to the city? What did you come back for? Who did you-“

Another shot.

“Don’t antagonise them,” John said in an angry whisper.

Then something marvellous happened to the doctor’s face. A dawning look of realisation, cunning and confidence. It was fascinating and Sherlock had the strangest desire to put his hand to John’s face and feel the muscles move into such a brilliant expression.

“Or at least antagonise the left hand side one,” John said, glancing at a door just behind them. “Get him to dispel all his bullets then see if you can tempt the right hand one down.”

He needed more data.

“I hope they’re worth it,” he shouted. “Worth making the utterly moronic decision to come back into the city. I hope they appreciate what an utter idiot you’re making of yourself.”

Another shot.

“David! Stop it!”

Ah, approximately early fifties, not enough of a sample to properly define an accent but definitely not Liverpudlian.

“Yes, David, listen to your father. Not that he’s your father. Although maybe he gets you to call him daddy. I bet he likes that.”

“Shut it, you!” from the left.

“You lost them and it hurts but you found yourself a new piece to sooth that pain away. Young and exciting and oh so vulnerable, you had to have some of that-“

“I said shut it or I’ll shoot your face off.”

He bit back the urge to point out that he hadn’t actually said that and continued.

“I bet you drooled to see the poor lad. I bet you thought he was the perfect start to your very own collection-“

Two shots. John ran for it.

“Henry!” David shouted in warning.

“Okay, David,” Sherlock said. “I’ll leave Henry alone, I’m sure he’s a wonderful guy once you get to know him and he isn’t trying to shoot your head off with no provocation. Let’s talk about you. No, let’s talk about her. The one, your only. You’d risk your life to find her again so we’ll assume you have some evidence that she survived the initial Event and that you’re not completely bereft of brain cells.”

“Leave it,” Henry said, tone dangerous, effectively confirming either the she or that the words were having the desired effect in spite of the gender.

“But you left her here. You couldn’t get to her in time and now she’s vanished. You can’t find her, you’ll never find her. You’re just not that good.”

“Stop it!”

“David!”

Footsteps. Brilliant.

“She’s probably dead by now anyway. Starved, burnt, drowned, some nutter blew her brains out just because she looked at them funny.”

“You shut up, you shut up now!”

“Or maybe she was pretty enough to fall into some collectors hands and I bet she’s really pretty. Pretty enough that they would never put her in the fields, no, they’d tie her up and share her around and she’d be had again and again and-“

“Get up!” David charged down the steps. “Get to your feet right now so I can blast your damn head off!”

“David,” Henry’s voice was shaking.

Both Sherlock and David looked up to see a man in his early fifties with grey hair, a black jacket, an expression of both nerves and fury and a Sig Sauer P226 pressed up against his head. Behind the man – Henry – John’s expression was perfectly calm and composed.

Sherlock got out from behind the table and faced the younger man.

“Put the gun down, David,” Henry said with obvious reluctance.

“No way,” said David, turning back towards Sherlock. “I can get him.”

“David.”

David turned his gaze back to Henry, looking torn. Sherlock decided to take the decision out of the young man’s untrustworthy hands and, stepping forward, knocked the gun upwards so when David pulled the trigger out of shock the bullet hit the ceiling harmlessly. He grabbed the barrels of the gun and kicked out to hit David in the knee, then twisted the gun out of the young man’s hands. He turned the shotgun immediately to point it at David.

“On your knees, hands behind your head.”

Looking more ashamed than angry, David complied, wincing a little as the knee Sherlock had kicked made contact with the ground.

There was a clattering noise as Henry came down the stairs, followed swiftly by John pointing the Sig at the man with one hand and holding the shotgun in the other. The older man knelt beside David without prompting and John came to stand next to Sherlock.

“We were just passing through,” John said reasonably. “There was no need for this to get violent.”

“With what he was saying?” David said, incredulously.

Henry shot him a warning look and the younger man stared back at the floor.

“You were shooting at us,” John said. “And he’ll apologise.”

The two men stared at John disbelievingly and it took a moment before Sherlock realised he was doing the same.

“Won’t you, Sherlock?” John said with a pointed look in his direction.

He turned back to the two men on the ground. “I’m sorry your attempts to kill and or maim myself and my friend caused me to say things that were deliberately designed to upset you.”

Now the two men were gaping at him.

“And that’s about as good as you’re going to get,” John said briskly. “Now, we don’t want to hurt you and we don’t want your supplies; we just want to go. We’ll even give you your guns back. We’ll leave them outside for you.”

“But first I want to ask you a few questions,” Sherlock said. “You don’t normally get into this kind of confrontation; there’s no way you would have that much ammo left if you did. You could have let us come through and there wouldn’t have been this problem. So tell me, what’s changed recently to make you more nervous. What are you scared of?”

“We thought you were collectors,” Henry admitted grudgingly. “Come to get us.”

“It’s a fair assumption that has been made by better men,” Sherlock said and was pleased by the slight quirk on John’s lips this caused. “But why would you be scared of collectors? You’re two strong men with guns, not exactly the sort they would come after.”

“Didn’t stop them trying four days ago, did it?”

“Four days ago?” Sherlock dropped to sit, cross legged on the floor, the shotgun behind his back. “Tell me everything.” He waved his hand at them. “You can put your hands down now.”

Cautiously, David and Henry took their hands off their heads and rearranged themselves until they were more comfortably seated on the ground before launching into the story.

 

~

 

While Sherlock harangued Henry for more details, (“Yes I know you said armed to the teeth but what _kind_ of weapons? Did they have extra ammo with them?”) John decided to chance asking for a cup of tea. David immediately declared that to be a good idea and showed him through to what once looked to have been the teacher’s lounge. John thought he would never stop being astonished at how a hostage situation had so quickly turned into a friendly chat once the other two men had managed to grasp the fact that they really did mean them no harm. Still, he made sure to keep the Sig within easy reach of him and out of reach for the other two.

The two men had a camping stove a lot like his old one set up in the lounge. David lit it, then filled a metal kettle with some water from a bottle hidden under a desk before placing the kettle on top of it.

“So how did you end up with him?” John asked to fill the space while they waited for the kettle to boil.

David looked back at the door they had come through and grinned. “He’s my father-in-law. Or will be once I find Becca and marry her.”

“Be hard pressed to find a vicar these days.”

“Plenty of rings around though,” David said. “We could even say the words in a church if she likes. I just want to find her.”

“How do you know she’s here?”

“She called, just after the Event, wanted to check I was okay. We both went to London Met, studied History. I was visiting my parents in Liverpool and she was still here. Her folks are from Derby. I said I’d come and get her. Told her to wait. Nicked a car and drove it down here. Well, had to switch cars now and then. Took me three days to get as far as Luton which was when she stopped answering her phone. So I called her dad. He met me on the road. He said we had to be prepared and we got a load of supplies and got hold of the guns. She was supposed to meet us at the uni but….”

But both campuses of London Metropolitan University had been destroyed in the same series of bombings as the Barbican and Weavers Fields distribution centres. A lot of people had said it had been a group of students. Some of those people were picky about what race those students had been. It hardly mattered anymore.

“I know she’s still here somewhere,” David said. “She’d never let me live it down if I left without her.”

The kettle whistled and David retrieved four mugs, a selection of tea bags, some sugar and even a flask of long life milk.

“What about you?” David asked as he poured out the water. “You looking for someone as well?”

Apart from Harry? And every other face on that wall he dutifully checked? “No, just following Sherlock around really.”

“Are you guys trying to take down the collectors or something?”

John shook his head. “I don’t know.”

Why was Sherlock so interested in the collectors who attacked these men? Did it have something to do with Fisher?

They took the tea through to the other room where Sherlock was still at it.

“You can’t just say they were all big and burly. That’s not a very apt description of eight men. They must have had individual identifiers. Ah, John, tea, good.” Sherlock took the cup from him and immediately sipped at it. “This is futile, I’m getting nowhere here. These gentlemen don’t appear to have the mental capacity to have retained any information that I could use to identify the group that attempted to take them. The only useful thing I have been able to discover is why they were selected.”

John frowned, that hadn’t been mentioned up to this point.

“Why?” Henry asked.

“Because you’re a mechanic,” Sherlock said, waving his hand vaguely in Henry’s direction as if it was hardly important.

“How did you know I-“

“Your hair, your shoes, your fingernails, the signs are all there. I’m sure they would have taken your son-in-law as well given the opportunity, just as a worker.”

“We never told you I was-“

“Anyway,” Sherlock downed the rest of the tea. “This is all irrelevant, if you’ll just show me the photo I’ll be on my way.”

John realised he was staring and he wasn’t the only one.

“Um,” David said tentatively after a few moments of silence. “What photo?”

“The photo of your fiancée and his daughter.”

“How the hell do you know all this?” Henry asked.

Sherlock merely held out his hand, palm upwards, towards David. Eventually David reached into an inside pocket of his jacket and pulled out a photograph which he tentatively put into Sherlock’s hands. Sherlock looked at it for a whole second before pushing it back towards the younger man.

“The Bull Pup pub down on Vine Street. Ask for Rosie, say Sherlock Holmes sent you and show her that photo, although if you have any others with both of you in it that would go over far better. Give her,” Sherlock dug around in his pockets until he pulled out a bottle filled with yellow-orange liquid, “this. Should smooth things along.”

“What is it?” Henry asked as David looked at the bottle warily.

“It’s orange juice,” Sherlock said in his ‘why am I surrounded by idiots’ voice. “Rosie loves orange juice. With a bottle of this she’ll do anything for you, including reveal that one of her new lodgers is in fact your fiancée.”

Both the other men’s faces lit up. David looked like he was going to clap with delight.

“She’s… that’s where she is? In Vine Street? All this time and she’s been at the bloody Bull Pup?”

Sherlock smiled, surprisingly sincerely. “Congratulations on the impending wedding. For a long and successful married life I suggest getting her then leaving London immediately. You only succeeded in scaring off those collectors; they might consider it worth another try.”

John realised he was still staring as Henry and David burst into declarations of thanks and shook Sherlock’s hand vigorously. David even went on to hug Sherlock then turned to John and appeared to do his best to squeeze the life out of him as well. Neither he nor Sherlock made any move as the two men grabbed the shotguns and with final shouts of thanks ran out into the rain.

“That was… nice.”

He hadn’t meant to say it out loud. But after everything he had been told, and everything he had seen for himself, to watch Sherlock do something nice for someone else that the other man didn’t need to was a little shocking.

“Yes, well,” Sherlock said, getting up and brushing down his trouser legs. “It was hardly the taxing missing person case I had hoped it would be.”

Of course, it was just the mystery Sherlock was after. Wasn’t it?

“Eight men,” Sherlock seemed to be talking to himself. “If it’s the same group then they’re learning. They still didn’t succeed but they didn’t fail as spectacularly as before.”

“Before?”

Sherlock turned and suddenly he was hit with the full force of the other man’s gaze. Even after all this time it still felt like he was going to be lifted off his feet by the brunt of it.

“Four days ago a group of collectors attempted to take, by force, a man fully able to defend himself for the sake of his profession as a mechanic. A useful person to have around these days. Four weeks ago another group of collectors attempted to take, by force, a man fully able to defend himself for the sake of his profession as a doctor. Coincidence?”

It took a second for that to sink in. Partly because he couldn’t quite believe it had only been four weeks since he had met Sherlock. It seemed like an age ago.

“Wait, me?” He closed his eyes as he remembered the scene in the office. “No, they were after you, weren’t they? They grabbed you.”

“They had no interest in me, they told me themselves. But they were looking for someone and the only other person there was you. Unless you have some connection to Henry, David or David’s fiancée you have yet to reveal to me then I can only conclude it was because of your use as a doctor.”

“Good thing you got there first.”

The muttered reply was barely audible even to him but Sherlock answered anyway.

“Yes, it was.”

He opened his eyes and discovered with a shock that Sherlock was only about an inch away, still looking intensely at him. The stare seemed to suck the breath right out of his lungs, leaving his mouth dry and a lump in his throat. He swallowed then licked his lips reflectively. The gaze flicked briefly to his lips then back to his eyes.

“We should,” he waved in the general direction of the door.

Sherlock whirled away so fast he felt dizzy.

“Yes, we’ve wasted enough time here. Come on, John.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy New Sherlock Eve everyone! Just advanced warning, next chapter the rating goes up to NC17. Will try and get that up Thursday.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note the ratings change. Next chapter Tuesday.

They had collected all their samples and were heading back to the Enclave when Sherlock heard the sound of a distressed pickup with a clunking engine. Within seconds he and John were ducked down an alleyway and pressed up against the wall while he stretched above John’s head to keep a watch out.

The pickup went past at surprising speed, weaving around the larger blocks in the road while running over the lighter debris. As it went past he caught a glimpse of four men sitting in the back in military uniform.

John stepped out of the alleyway just as the pickup rounded a corner and said, “Was that Seb?”

A small subsection of their military team, in a vehicle that wasn’t their own and in an awful hurry?

“Come on,” he said and took off for the other end of the street where there was a side road which contained an alley which led to another alley which held a staircase which went up to the roofs where, with John at his heels, he could cut across several streets until he got to another staircase which led to another alleyway which took them down onto a road, right in front of a crashed car which the pickup would have to slow down to get around and would, therefore, be going slow enough that they wouldn’t hit him when they stopped.

The soldiers looked less than happy to see him. Furious would be the word he would use which he thought was rather unjustified.

“Holmes-“ the colonel started

John appeared, panting a little, next to him and their attitude changed immediately.

“Doc, are we glad to see you!”

“Seb, what’s happening?”

John jogged round to the rear of the vehicle and the colonel immediately helped him up. Sherlock only just had time to hop in after him before the pickup started moving again.

There was an injured soldier in the back of the pickup. Strictly speaking there were three injured soldiers but only one of them was bad enough to be lain down on the floor, swamped by badly applied bandages and the contents of at least one first aid kit.

John set to work immediately and with a professional efficiency that Sherlock found he quite admired. As he watched on intently, the doctor barked orders which the surrounding soldiers jumped to obey, improvised with the small amount of medical equipment he had at his disposal, including at one point using his hand to hold the soldier together on the inside, then demanded a phone to bark more orders at the Enclave for when they got back. Throughout, John had the same calm and collected expression that Sherlock had seen every time the other man had held a gun. It was the first time he truly understood just how closely knitted soldier and doctor was inside this man. He had seen John take life away and now he was seeing him give it back and it was all terribly… distracting.

Being in the open air with the pickup rushing so quickly through the streets must have been making him a little light headed.

He attempted to demand the story out of one of the soldiers but they seemed to be having the same trouble tearing their eyes away from John as he did. Eventually Private Fisher ended up telling the tale. By the time they reached the Enclave he had heard all the details about how the team had been scouting out a depot when they had come under fire. These six soldiers had been separated from the other half of the team and forced to abandon their vehicle. From the sounds of it they were lucky only one man was seriously injured.

When they entered the embarkation bay at the Enclave three nurses and an awful lot of equipment were waiting for them. He tried to stay out of the way as John had his patient transferred to a gurney, properly medicated, sedated and given blood and then finally managed to regain his hand. The doctor then left the patient in the hands of the nurses and turned his attention to the other two injured soldiers. Apparently there was nothing too serious wrong with them so he sent them through to decon.

Pushing the patient himself, John then charged through to the long route decon area and Sherlock, along with everyone else it seemed, followed as if pulled in the doctor’s wake. He wished John wasn’t being so damn magnetic because even without the two other soldiers it was too crowded so he couldn’t see anything, despite manoeuvring everybody out of his way. He didn’t dare get too close to the doctor and the patient though, the memory of John banishing him and Mycroft from the Infirmary for being in the way being too strong in his memory.

They pushed straight through the examination room, changing room and shower room but stopped in the penultimate room. Sherlock immediately found himself pleased by John’s cunning. Sterile without breaking decontamination and the inbuilt sinks combined with the changing room next door filled with scrubs meant that John could scrub up and begin immediately, wasting no more time.

None of the other soldiers seemed to want to leave so Sherlock stood with them and watched as John began to operate.

He wished there was a mirror or a camera above the gurney come operating table. That way he could see every slice through flesh, every organ within the body and every deft movement of John’s fingers. Instead he watched John’s face. Despite being obscured by a surgical mask and goggles, the doctor still had a very expressive face. Sherlock could almost tell how well the operation was going by the elevation of John’s eyebrows. The eyebrows finally settled as John closed up with a,

“Well, we’ll have to watch and hope.”

John looked up then appeared momentarily astonished at the audience before he nodded and said,

“Right, I think it’s well past time we all went through decon.”

Unfortunately, since they had just managed to contaminate decon, this involved a transfer to the short route and a small pause while the extra chemicals were set out in the showers. Less than an hour later, Sherlock was hurrying after John who was striding ahead to go see his patient. The four soldiers were following closely behind and they all entered the medical room together.

Mycroft was there, looking severe with his hands folded in front of him just dying for an umbrella to be propped up between them. There were two MI5 men, the kind chosen for brawn rather than brain, standing behind him.

What was going on? There was only one reason why Mycroft would be there and bring the goons. But surely they wouldn’t be taking Fisher in now. Not for one lost vehicle and one injured soldier.

“Private Fisher, could you come with us please?”

Sherlock took a step forward, trying to telegraph to Mycroft his desire to know everything. To find out exactly what the bigger situation was. Beside him John’s eyes slid shut. Fisher looked confused, turning to his colonel for support. ‘Seb’, as John had called him, demanded,

“What’s going on?”

“Private Fisher, now.”

Fisher walked towards Mycroft and despite being as tall as the two MI5 men seemed almost swamped by them as he was led away. Mycroft followed without a backwards look. Not willing to let his brother get away that easily, Sherlock chased after them.

 

~

 

“Fifty terabytes of data they say he had,” Seb said, staring into the untouched coffee cup on the table in the canteen the next morning. “That’s not exactly a memory stick, that’s a hard drive. Several hard drives. Add that to the samples and you can see why he had to give them the vehicle.”

“No, you can’t,” John said, raising his own mug to his lips, then put it down once again without touching it.

“No, you can’t,” Seb said sadly. “Except… They’ve got his brother. I mean… wouldn’t you do anything for your sister? I know I would.”

“I wouldn’t turn my back on my buddies,” John said firmly. “Couldn’t he have asked for help?”

“Yeah,” Seb snorted, “as if Mycroft Holmes would mount a full on rescue for one deadbeat kid. You might as well ask the sea if it wouldn’t mind being a little bit drier, please, thank you.”

They stared at their cups in silence for a moment.

“What will happen to him?” John asked.

“Well, he can’t exactly stick around, can he? We’d never be able to trust him again, even if he wasn’t on a team, not while they’ve still got his brother. They can’t let him go; he knows where all our entrances are. He could go out into the city and tell everyone and we wouldn’t be able to cope if all the scavengers in London started knocking on our doors demanding food. They can’t lock him up, that would be a waste of food for feeding him and resources for guarding him and that big a waste is pretty much the stuff that makes up Mycroft Holmes’ nightmares. That’s if he sleeps. I reckon he hangs upside down like a bat. Anyway, so he can’t stay, he can’t go and he can’t be locked up.” Seb finally raised his eyes to meet John’s. “What do you think will happen to him?”

John looked away from the cold expression in Seb’s eyes. “God.”

“Haven’t heard from Him lately. Have you?” Seb shook his head. “This place is just… Fisher is- was just a kid. This life would push anyone down the wrong tracks. I just wish…” Seb looked around as if nervous then leaved forward. John followed suit. “I wish it wasn’t a choice between this place, the collectors and the street. There’s gotta be another option. Another… way of living- of surviving.” Seb sat back again. “You’ve heard the rumours though, haven’t you? Places out in the countryside, far enough away from the cities for the collectors to not notice. Everyone equal and hidden away. But that’s all fairytales. Wishful thinking.”

“Sounds like it.”

Seb grinned. “Be great if it was true though, wouldn’t it?”

“Bit late for Fisher, though.”

The grin faded. “Yeah. Poor bastard.”

John sighed and stared at his coffee. He was exhausted. Between his patient and Sherlock getting the sudden urge to monologue for a couple of hours, he hadn’t actually managed to get any sleep the night before. He desperately needed caffeine if he planned to stay up any longer and he had worked so hard not to be nocturnal. But the thought of eating or drinking anything made him feel sick.

In the end he pushed the mug away, said goodbye to Seb, then went back to his room for a nap, being sure to set the alarm on his phone so he wouldn’t sleep more than a few hours.

He was so exhausted he fell asleep immediately and didn’t even dream. For the next two weeks that was the last peaceful sleep he managed to have.

The nightmares came back with such vengeance that John was left wondering what he had done to make his subconscious hate him so much.

He found the only way to combat the dreams was to work himself to exhaustion, that way he would fall into too deep a sleep to remember anything. But he had to make sure he wasn’t too out of sorts in order to still do his work. He found he was able to fine tune it like an art form. He didn’t always get it right. There was that one time at football practice where Jack had tackled him and he went down then stayed down because it took too much effort to get up. Needless to say Tom had not been happy about that. He had been ordered to get some rest before their big game against the Met team on Saturday evening and he had fully intended to. Then Sherlock had demanded his attention.

So, on Saturday afternoon, it occasioned that instead of resting after thirty-six hours of being awake he was in Sherlock’s lab when the incident happened.

 

~

 

John was falling asleep. The other man had one elbow propped up on the table top with the fist of that hand the only thing stopping the doctor’s head from dropping forward and destroying the experiment he had worked so hard to put together.

He knew he should send the doctor away; it wasn’t as if the man was any good to him in this condition, but he found he enjoyed the simple proximity of the other man. John had a reassuring presence, even when half unconscious. There was nothing attractive about it, cheek distorted against the fist, eyes drooping and mouth slightly open, but the notion of having John near was somewhat appealing.

Besides, if John did fall asleep perhaps he would finally have the opportunity to witness a nightmare taking place. The aftermath of the one two weeks previously had been downright fascinating. To be present when one was happening would be intriguing.

John started slightly, as if just catching himself from falling asleep, and then settled back down onto his hand, watching Sherlock through half lidded eyes.

Sherlock quickly turned back to his experiment. If this worked there should be a small puff of smoke….

He let one drop of acid drop into the experimental substance he was working on. A cloud of smoke exploded from the vial.

 _Well that was unexpected_ , he thought as he coughed and waved the smoke away from his face. _An even stronger reaction than I predicted. Excellent! If I could_ -

His thoughts were scattered into a wave of shock and an ache of pain as a fist slammed into the side of his face and knocked him off his stool. He grabbed the table to remain on his feet, madly scrambling to think how the attacker had got into the lab without either himself or John noticing. His thoughts as to whether John was okay lasted only a second before he was met with the startling revelation that John _was_ his attacker as, through the smoke and the streams of tears from his irritated eyes, the ex-soldier launched at him.

He was knocked face down on to the floor, John landing heavily on top of him as in the background he heard a smash followed by a very bad sizzling noise. More smoke billowed. Darker smoke; extremely bad. The alarm went off.

He attempted to throw John off without hurting him but couldn’t move. John wouldn’t let him move. What was he doing? What was wrong? He bucked more violently, lashing out with his arms but the ex-soldier only responded by pressing a knee so sharply into his back it sent pings of pain all the way up his spine, then tugged his hand up behind him so he gasped in shock and choked on the smoke. John was shouting something in his ear but he couldn’t make out the words with the alarm and the ringing in his ears from inhaling too much of the smoke. He tried to shout at John, to persuade the other man to back off, that they needed to get out of there but he only coughed in the smoke. John’s only response was to hold his arm tighter then twist his wrist until he cried out in pain.

This wasn’t John, what was he- Oh hell.

Well he’d wanted to see a nightmare and now it was going to kill them both.

Suddenly the doors swung open, letting in light and letting out the smoke as four hazmat suited technicians charged in. There was an instant lightening of the pressure on his back and he threw himself upwards and twisted to look for John. The other man was seated on the floor a couple of feet away appearing dazed and confused. Their eyes met and a look of absolute horror crossed John’s face.

He reacted instantly, jumping to his feet and pulling John to his. Clutching the hand John had twisted to his chest he held on tightly to the doctor’s arm with his other hand and dragged the other man forcibly out into the corridor.

Once they were around the corner he took a deep breath of the clean air and leaned against the wall without letting go of John’s arm. The other man was breathing heavily through his nose with one hand pressed up against his mouth. There were some mumbled squeaks which sounded vaguely like they were supposed to be,

“Oh God, what did I do?”

Before the doctor grabbed hold of his hand and looked at it.

“I think this is sprained but you need an x-ray to make sure I didn’t- I didn’t-“ John raised one hand and touched Sherlock’s cheek gently. “Oh god, you need some ice at least and-“ John sniffed. “Oh god.”

The doctor turned away and tried to pull out of his grip but he just slipped his hand down so it was encircling John’s wrist and held on tighter. He knew that John could probably still break out of it but not without hurting him. He was sure that, given what had just happened, that would be the last thing the other man would want to do.

John buried his head in his arm and mumbled words like, “Please,” and “Sorry,” and “Stupid, stupid, stupid,” between gasps for air that could well have been sobs.

He tried to see John’s face, tried to stop John from hiding from him, tried to pull John back to face him. After all, he had wanted to see a nightmare. He had kept John with him when he should have sent the other man to bed. It was his fault more than John’s. It wasn’t as if the doctor had any control over himself. And now he was hating that John was so upset, hating that the strong doctor and solider had turned into a snivelling wreck and he wanted to see John’s face.

He pushed his injured hand in between John and the arm the doctor was using to cover his face and twisted the man around. John fought but he pulled and levered the offending limb away until it was by John’s side and the other man was practically up against his face, looking at him with an expression of sheer misery.

“It’s okay,” Sherlock said in an effort to make the horrible look go away while at the same time letting his eyes trace over it, examining every facet and storing it away in his John folder. “I’m okay.”

John shook his head.

“I am,” Sherlock said insistently.

“How is this anywhere near okay?” John choked.

“You think I haven’t been punched before?”

John didn’t smile but he did take a few slow deep breaths. Sherlock could feel every one against the length of his body. The other man looked away and straightened out his chin.

Sherlock moved his head to recapture eye contact but John pointedly dropped his gaze away from all efforts.

“If we-“ John paused to swallow thickly and take another deep breath. “We need to get you to the Infirmary and clean you up.”

Sherlock nodded then, without letting go, he stuck his head back around the corner to see how the clean-up team was doing. They were probably ruining the inside of lab, completely destroying several important experiments. He knew he should really be in there, sorting them out. Instead he checked that everything was under control – as in nothing was liable to explode at that very moment – and went with John.

 

~

 

Every wrap of the ACE bandage around Sherlock’s arm was like a stab to the gut. He had done this. He hadn’t even been fully asleep, he had been dozing and then- oh god- and then he had finally caught one of the insurgents planting those IEDs and had been trying to restrain them when they had struggled against him and- oh god what was wrong with him? He wanted to smack himself. He wanted Sherlock to punch him. Then at least they would be even. But the other man was being so bloody calm about it. It was infuriating because he didn’t know what was going to happen to him. Surely Sherlock wouldn’t want him around after that. Why hadn’t the other man asked for a different doctor? But Sherlock had insisted that he be the one to apply the ice pack to Sherlock’s swelling left cheek and the sling to the thankfully not broken right wrist.

He felt sick and he suspected that wasn’t just from the fumes he had inhaled.

Sherlock was watching him with that dissecting stare. He cringed inwards, knowing he was being judged, knowing he deserved whatever was going through Sherlock’s brain but not knowing what that was. Didn’t a condemned man deserve to know his punishment? Why wasn’t Sherlock saying anything?

Then Mycroft walked in.

Oh god, they had been waiting for Big Brother, hadn’t they? Here it came.

“I’m fine, Mycroft,” Sherlock said, glaring in the direction of his brother. “You can take your nannying elsewhere.”

“How bad are his injuries, Doctor Watson?”

He couldn’t have snapped to attention faster than if the almost humiliatingly deferentially phrased order had instead been ‘Watson, report!’

“The bruising to the right cheek is superficial and should go down in a couple of days. The wrist is more serious. It will need to be kept elevated for at least forty-eight hours and I would recommend keeping it rested as much as possible for the next week. So no violin playing for a while and he should recover completely.”

He was almost proud of the professional tone he managed with those words.

“I’m glad to hear it.” Mycroft’s face was unreadable. “Now if you come this way, I believe we need to have a discussion.”

John swallowed reflectively. A discussion, right. There were probably a couple of muscle behind the door ready to drag him outside and shoot him like the dog he was. Like Fisher. Maybe if he could get away, overpower them somehow, he could escape. They could just let him out into the city; he wouldn’t tell anyone.

Or maybe Mycroft really did just want to discuss something. Before getting out the blue mind control serum….

Suddenly there was a hand on his chest, pushing him backwards, away from Mycroft, and Sherlock stepped in front of him.

“Mycroft.” It was said warningly and low enough to send not wholly unpleasant chills the length of his spine. “No.”

“Sherlock-“

“I said no, Mycroft. You lay a finger on him and there will be trouble.”

Mycroft tipped his head slightly, almost appraisingly. “I don’t doubt that. But you have to understand the seriousness of the situation.”

“Leave it to me.”

“You were attacked,” said quietly as if he wasn’t supposed to have heard it.

“It won’t happen again.”

“Sherlock, the safety of this facility and _all_ of its inhabitants is my primary concern.”

Sherlock took a step forward and raised his voice. “I will take full responsibility, you can lay the blame on me.”

“There are precautions that have to be adhered to-“

“He’s mine,” it was almost a growl. “I found him, give him to me.”

Mycroft sighed dramatically and John could almost see Sherlock rolling his eyes in response despite only being able to see the back of his head.

“You do realise it’s not possible to give him to you.”

“Of course it is. I’ll fix everything.”

“You can’t.”

“Of course I can.”

“Sherlock-“

“Please.” The look of shock on Mycroft’s face was enough to tell John that Sherlock didn’t normally beg like this. “Just don’t, Mycroft. Please?”

There was a silent impasse for fully three minutes before Mycroft finally tipped his head slightly as if in concession then left as swiftly as he had arrived.

Sherlock spun round to look at him, triumph obvious in all his features. John felt like his brain was chugging along with a few cogs loose because he couldn’t quite comprehend what had just happened. He seemed to have lost control of his jaw as well and it took a moment to reconnect to the muscles that allowed him to close his mouth. He fought down the urge to shout, “What the hell just happened?!” because you weren’t supposed to yell at people who saved your life, were you? Sherlock had just saved his life. _Sherlock_?

What were you supposed to say to people who save your life?

Oh yes.

“Thanks, I owe you one.”

His voice came out sounding about as lost as he felt.

Sherlock merely smirked and said, “I’m sure you’ll find a way to repay me.”

 

~

 

Sherlock paced up and down the corridor, four steps one way followed by a smooth turn and four strides the other way so that his pacing never exceeded the length of the room behind the door he occasionally hesitated mid pace to stare at but never touched. The door blocking him from the object of his deliberations. John’s door. John’s room.

John.

After the doctor had finished patching him up, he had ordered John to bed to catch up on some much needed rest and he had gone back to his lab to see how much damage had been done. He had spent a few hours shouting at the clean-up crew, tidying up the mess and recording his results, but he couldn’t stop one corner of his mind from dwelling on what had happened with John. Specifically, his own reaction.

He had begged. Him. He never begged and certainly not to Mycroft, that was a downright foolish thing to do and would only result in fuelling his brother’s superiority complex, which would never do. But he had. Because he had needed to. Because the idea of Mycroft taking John away, of John not being around, was intolerable.

Why was it intolerable?

Although an assistant in the lab was always helpful he was perfectly capable of doing without one. And when he needed an extra set of hands there were always volunteers available. Often it was quite difficult to persuade the same one to come back twice but there were plenty more where they came from; he understood he was considered a rite of passage to more senior levels within the research group.

He didn’t actually need companionship at dinner. Food was just fuel after all; he had always treated it as such before. While it may take time to readjust back to his old way of pit-stop eating he could certainly manage it. There would be more time for work.

And what did it matter to him if the doctors had to work a little harder to cover all the shifts. They had managed fine enough before and there had always been a doctor available whenever he needed one. That matter hardly affected him. True, it was useful to have a doctor outside of the Enclave for emergency treatment but it was hardly likely Mycroft was going to let John out again anytime soon so that was no longer relevant when considering the benefits of one Doctor John Watson.

All in all anything John could do, anyone could do, and anything they couldn’t, he could live without – he had lived before after all. He didn’t need John.

But he wanted him, all the same.

He wanted John’s smile, he wanted John’s laugh, he wanted John’s kindness and good nature and the way John seemed to like him for no apparent reason. He wanted John’s fierceness, he wanted John’s teasing, he wanted John’s quietness and steady hands. He wanted John’s… he wanted John. Everything. Every breath, every thought and tiny movement he wanted. And he wanted more, all of it, to keep, to hold, to cherish, to be his own.

He stopped and stared at the door. It was blocking the way between him and everything he desired. He hated it.

Irrational. It was John causing all this; he should hate John, not the door. No, he shouldn’t hate anything. He should go back to logic because there was still something he needed to work out.

He resumed his pacing.

Four steps one way, another four steps the other.

Why would John want him? John couldn’t possibly want him as much as he wanted John. He felt like he might explode from it and John showed his emotions far too much, he would have seen, wouldn’t he?

Had he?

His mind threw up flags, every time he had caught John staring, every time John’s breath had hitched when he had gotten too close, every sign of attraction it was possible for a human to put out unconsciously, he had evidence of them all. John had even said that he belonged to Sherlock. He had had all the evidence but he hadn’t made the connection until his observations of himself. Oh stupid!

But he needed to be certain his conclusions were correct; this was far too important a matter to leave to theoretical musings, he needed an empirical experiment to test his hypothesis.

He stopped level with the door and turned to face it.

Yes, the perfect test. There was some risk to rejection, admittedly, but he was sure John would understand if he explained it was an experiment. Besides, John would enjoy it. Everyone enjoyed it; even if they couldn’t stand him.

He took a deep breath, steadying himself, placed a perfectly dry palm on the handle, gripped and turned.

 

~

 

It was the door creeping open that woke him.

Blinking blearily in the sudden light, he saw the unmistakable silhouette of Sherlock Holmes entering his room before the door was shut leaving only the tiniest crack of light coming through underneath. Curious, he propped himself up on his elbows as he felt more than saw Sherlock step across the tiny gap towards the bed. He could hear the other man breathing loudly in the silence of the room as Sherlock stood by the bed. Assuming he was wanted for something – some mad experiment that would revolutionise the way honey was produced but which could only be done at two in the morning no doubt - he pushed back the covers but before he could swing his feet out Sherlock was suddenly in the bed on top of him, rolling him fully onto his back and pulling the covers back over them both.

He stopped breathing.

Sherlock was knelt so he was straddling his waist with both hands braced either side of his arms. He felt the mattress dip slightly as Sherlock shifted his weight and raised one hand to hover just above his face.

He let out the breath he had been holding in an exhale that was far shakier than he had intended.

Sherlock’s fingers touched lightly against his cheek and the hand cupped his jaw. The mantra of ‘What’s he doing? What the hell is happening?’ that had been going round and round in his head was instantly silenced as the slightly coarse rough of the bandage there offered the answer.

 _“I’m sure you’ll find a way to repay me.”_

Sherlock hovered above him, silent and unmoving but for the tingling caress of the other man’s fingers across his cheek.

He suddenly wished he could see Sherlock’s expression, whether it was lustful or logical like when the other man was looking at an experiment. Tentatively, he reached out a hand into the darkness. It met with sharp cheekbones, soft overhanging curls and the silky sensation of Sherlock mouthing his thumb as soon as it was within reach of the other man’s lips. John gasped at the contact which seemed so unreal in its intimacy and Sherlock appeared to take that as a signal. The other man descended, laying his weight across John. The bandaged hand moved up his shoulder and pulled his outstretched arm around Sherlock’s neck. A knee forced its way between his thighs, compelling him to spread his legs and a gentle kiss was placed on the edge of his jaw. More kisses followed along his jaw line and on his neck, each one with growing intensity. The feel of another man’s stubble rubbing against his skin for the first time in nearly eight years wasn’t as unpleasant as he had been expecting. When Sherlock discovered the sensitive spot just behind his ear and sucked forcefully, unpleasant was very much not the word. He gasped at the shock of pleasure, then tipped his head back and tightened his arm around Sherlock’s neck involuntarily

Sherlock pulled away.

A flash of anger sparked through him. Had this all been a joke? An experiment? An attempt to humiliate him and show just how much power the Holmes brothers had over him?

Then Sherlock’s hands seized the bottom of his T-shirt and tugged it upwards and he knew that for whatever reason Sherlock had decided to have it all. This was happening. He wondered briefly whether he could argue. He decided to stop thinking. Lifting his arms he arched his back to let Sherlock pull the T-shirt over his head. He stared up at the ceiling as the other man started to lavish attention on his chest and simply gave himself over to the sensations. This proved to be easier than he suspected when Sherlock’s questing fingertips managed to find two more of his most sensitive erogenous zones, one of which he hadn’t even know he had.

By the time Sherlock’s slowly descending hands met the waistband of his pyjamas he was panting and more than half hard.

He felt Sherlock’s body, which had been sliding down the bed along the same route as his hands, push back up until their heads were level again with Sherlock supporting himself on one elbow. The other hand stayed down at John’s waist so John brought one of his own arms up to steady the other man and slipped the other downwards towards Sherlock’s own trousers in readiness for the no doubt expected reciprocation. Sherlock rested his forehead against John’s as his hand plunged downwards. John had to contend with buttons to undo so by the time he had pulled Sherlock’s trousers and underwear away, Sherlock had already exposed his cock and tightened fingers around it.

The noise John made was closer to a whimper than anything else but was still the loudest sound either of them had made since the moment Sherlock had walked in the door.

Sherlock started to lazily stroke him from base to tip and he tried to follow suit but found it difficult to keep a steady rhythm. Sherlock’s breath was hot against his face, so close that he felt as if the only air he was breathing was that which came from Sherlock. His own gasps grew more and more ragged as the other man pushed him further and further towards the edge. Sherlock started making little groans in the back of his throat and the way the other man pulsated under his fingers let him know Sherlock was close. He felt the bed sheets move as Sherlock’s grip on them tightened and then, with a low moan, Sherlock came across his hand and stomach.

The rhythm against his own cock stuttered for a moment, but only a moment, before Sherlock continued to stroke him with renewed force, adding a little twist that made his toes curl. He could feel himself getting closer and closer like an onrushing train and then, with a soundless cry, he came, adding his own outpouring to the swiftly cooling liquid on his stomach.

He realised his fingers had tightened against Sherlock’s shoulder and he relaxed his grip but kept his arm there so that the other man wouldn’t collapse on top of him. Neither of them moved for a moment, just lay against each other, breathing each other’s air. John could feel Sherlock’s heart beating through his chest, slowing down from a race. His own followed suit.

Then Sherlock tilted to one side and reached out from under the covers for something over the edge of the bed. The other man returned with a piece of cloth John could guess was his own T-shirt and mopped both of them up with it. The mattress dipped as Sherlock started to untangle himself from John and got off the bed.

John didn’t move, just stared at the ceiling and tried not to think, to dwell on what had just happened. He could hear the sound of clothing being rearranged and briefly wondered whether Sherlock was going to say something cliché like, ‘We should do this again sometime,’ before he fiercely clamped down on his imagination.

He was actually taken by surprise when the other man leaned back over the bed and gave him an extremely tender kiss to the lips which John found himself returning before he realised it, one hand raising to cup Sherlock’s cheek. It was only the lightest of caresses between lips and lasted just two seconds but somehow seemed the most intimate thing to take place between them that night.

When it was over Sherlock withdrew so fast John could have sworn he felt a breeze across his face. The door shut quietly but firmly behind him.

John pulled up his pyjama bottoms and rolled on his side. He didn’t want to touch his T-shirt so he wrapped his arms around himself and closed his eyes. He didn’t want to think about what had happened, what would happen in the morning and definitely whether or not it would happen again. He tried to go back to sleep.

He couldn’t.


	11. Chapter 11

They didn’t talk about it, that was the best thing, Sherlock thought. All his previous sexual partners had spent the morning after – or on occasion the very next minute – dwelling on rules and boundaries and definitions. In contrast, he and John seemed to slip into the new aspect of their relationship with such natural ease it was as if it had always been meant to be.

Admittedly, John did act a little strangely the next morning. The other man seemed quieter than usual, almost skittish. At first he thought it might be some overhanging nervousness as to the consequences of the previous afternoon’s incident. But then it occurred to him that it might be John’s way of being concerned over the new shape of their partnership. He didn’t want their day-to-day relationship to change, he liked it exactly how it was, so he attempted to show John this by acting exactly the same as he always had. That seemed to do the trick and it didn’t take long for John to get the message. They didn’t need to talk about it. That was brilliant.

For some reason that message seemed to need repeating after the second night in John’s room. Had John not expected there to be a second night? Had John thought he wouldn’t want to have sex with him again? He made sure to spend their third time disabusing John of that notion completely.

The sex only got better. Their first few times were brief and awkward; barely more than fumblings in the dark. But as time went on he got more used to John’s body and John to his. He learned those spots that would have John squirming, the perfect touch to break John’s silence into delicious moans, the best way to flex his hips and drive John straight to the brink but not over. John appeared to grow more confident as well. At first the other man seemed almost afraid to touch him, as if it was off limits. But soon he had the doctor pulling at his hair when he sucked him, holding tight enough to cause bruises as he rode him, and just exploring his body with wandering hands while he kissed him. He couldn’t help but notice that John never initiated contact, but once he got the other man going there was no stopping him until they were both satiated.

They fell into a kind of routine, like a proper couple, Sherlock couldn’t help musing, pleased. He didn’t visit John every night. The other man always seemed so tired the next day, even when Sherlock started visiting early in the evening so there would be plenty of time for John to sleep afterwards. Besides, they were both busy people and neither of them were exactly teenagers anymore. Still, two or three times a week he would go to John’s room, strip off completely then climb into the bed and strip John of his clothing as well. Although the bed was bigger than his own – the main reason why it was far more practical to use John’s room rather than his own – it was still narrow and awkward so it tended to be easier for him to remain physically on top although, once they branched out in terms of sexual style, who was technically topping would switch between them.

Afterwards he would almost always leave immediately, giving John one final goodnight kiss. Once or twice he had been so relaxed and John’s bed had been so warm and gorgeous that he had fallen asleep, sprawled across John’s body. It had been the most refreshing slumber he had ever had but he could tell instantly the next morning that John hadn’t slept a wink. The other man was obviously unused to sleeping with another person. He supposed that it would actually be better to spend every night sleeping with John to allow the doctor to acclimatise to it but most nights he wasn’t tired or he had experiments to run. Only when he truly needed revitalising did he allow himself the luxury of John’s company while he slept. John must have sensed that need because the doctor never threw him out in order to get a better night’s sleep for himself. Never even raised the issue the next morning. It was perfect.

John was perfect.

It even started to spill out into his day-to-day life. It was as if since he had stepped up his relationship with John everyone’s IQ scores had magically jumped ten points. Logically he knew that couldn’t possibly be true but the number of times he lost his temper at someone’s complete idiocy on a daily basis dropped so dramatically that he was almost tempted to reach that conclusion. Every colour seemed brighter, every day seemed warmer and everything just seemed less irritating in an unquantifiable way.

As far as he was concerned, things couldn’t get better.

 

~

 

It could be worse was such an overused phrase. Mainly overused by people who either couldn’t quite comprehend how much worse their situation could get, or who could only imagine a ridiculous worse scenario like if there were snakes in the room or if there were laser guided sharks honing in on them.

John had once had a four year old child die in his arms after she had been trampled on and then abandoned by her own mother, two feet away from her own front door in London. When he said it could be worse, he knew exactly what he was talking about. So when it came to the situation with Sherlock, it most definitely could be worse.

He was a doctor again, able to use his skills to keep life going on a daily basis – and even save it from the brink on occasion. He had food, warmth, shelter and fresh water. He had, if not friends, then affable acquaintances he could socialise with, drink coffee with and play football with. He had a man who let him be a witness and sometimes even a participant in his genius. Who taught him to treat the outside as a grand adventure rather than a battleground. Who made him laugh harder than he had in a long time. On top of all of that he was alive and no one seemed about to put a bullet in his head.

When the only cost being asked of him was sex with an attractive and enthusiastic man whenever and however that man decided to have it, then he could say with authority that it could be much worse.

When it came to the sex it most definitely could be worse. Sherlock, to his surprise – or it would have been had he ever thought about it before it happened – turned out to be a generous lover. He seemed as, if not more, concerned with John getting off than with himself. It was almost possible for him to imagine that he had chosen this and as time passed and Sherlock got more adventurous that’s exactly what he found himself doing.

He remembered the first guy he had genuinely found attractive. He had been at university. Coming from a boys’ grammar school it had been the co-ed environment at university that had truly awakened his sexuality. But unlike many of his contemporaries it had woken up for both women and men. Sex was suddenly on the table and as well as finding it in the form of new female classmates he had started to look at old schoolmates in a different light. And so his early experimentations had mostly been with friends that developed into more rather than new ‘conquests’. That remained the case until his third year when Aiden Hayes walked into the Student Union Bar.

Aiden had been as exotic as his name, tanned but with fair hair, muscled, square chinned and the kind of deep dark eyes you could lose yourself in. John had taken one look at him and thought ‘wow’ for the first time in his life.

He had known instantly that he wanted to go up to Aiden, buy him a drink, flirt with him in a casual and yet determined way that would eventually lead first to some serious snogging in the corridor and then back to his flat where they would fall into bed, giggling and panting in equal measure. Someone could have produced a full on double feature porno from the plans he had made the instant he set eyes on Aiden Hayes.

None of it happened of course. He never went up to Aiden in the bar that night and only found out the other man’s name later when he spoke to the student Aiden had been visiting, who confirmed that Aiden had only been there one night. Instead, Aiden was left to feature in some of his more graphic and, with a little self-stimulation, rather satisfactory fantasies where all his plans had come to fruition.

In many ways, with Sherlock it was more like his previous relationships than with Aiden; friends that developed into something more sexual. He hadn’t been attracted to Sherlock the instant he saw the other man; he hadn’t exactly been in the right circumstances. But when Sherlock climbed into his bed in the dark without saying a word he let himself put Sherlock in Aiden’s place in his mind. Imagined that he had seen Sherlock across a crowded bar, flirted with him, snogged him in the corridor then taken him back to his room. He imagined that he had made some of the decisions at some point.

It had never been a particularly convincing a fantasy; he didn’t have that good of an imagination. But it was usually enough to keep him going until Sherlock’s clever hands took away all thought. It was enough to make sure he didn’t start shouting, didn’t throw Sherlock off. He didn’t want to risk everything he had, the new life he had been building, by upsetting the one man who stood between him and Mycroft Holmes. Mycroft Holmes who had already tried to kill him once and would have even more reason to if he were to upset Mycroft’s beloved little brother. So he put his mind somewhere else so he could be sure to respond and reciprocate exactly how he was expected to.

Outside of the bedroom nothing changed. Sherlock still showed up whenever he felt it, still shared his thoughts, deductions and experiments. Still chatted and joked with him over dinner, took him to the most random places all over the Enclave, put on impromptu violin recitals, watched films and TV programmes with him and whined whenever John had a football practice. Sherlock didn’t demand any more affection, contact or obedience than he had before. It was as if there were two Sherlocks, one for the light and one for the dark.

Only once did Sherlock show a possessive side during the day. It had been just under two weeks after their first time and John had been in the canteen having his morning coffee with Seb. The colonel had been going on about one of his fairytales again, some rumour he’d heard about a place out in the sticks called ‘The Farm’ where everyone lived in harmony and worked together and there was plenty to go around to everyone. The kind of place which sounded very tempting but also very unlikely. Still, Seb had felt strongly about it – apparently the discovery that there had been a conspiracy within his own team as he had suspected had encouraged him to trust his instincts more - and was barraging John with questions about whether he had ever heard of it during his time on the street and whether he knew if it was real or not.

It was at that point that Sherlock had showed up.

Sherlock had come over to the table, given Seb a brief scathing glance, then appeared to decide to ignore him and focus on John.

“I want you, come on.”

John heard Seb give a quiet whistle and mumble, “Here, boy.”

“Can it wait?” he asked, vaguely waving his half full mug of coffee.

“No, I need your assistance, it’s very delicate and needs two people to handle it,” Sherlock said, grumpily.

Seb scoffed but John ignored him. It was just a reaction to the accidental innuendo, he didn’t think Seb knew at all. No one seemed to.

“Come _on_ ,” Sherlock insisted.

John reluctantly downed as much coffee as he could take in one mouthful and got up to follow his… whatever. Behind him, Seb made the ‘whipped’ noise. John decided ignoring him was still the best plan of action.

As soon as the canteen doors had swung shut behind them Sherlock stopped abruptly and turned to look at him with a firm expression.

“That colonel,” Sherlock said. “You’ve been spending a lot of time with him lately, haven’t you?”

“Yes.”

“Don’t.”

 

~

 

One month! It had been a whole month since Sherlock had followed his brother as Mycroft led Private Fisher away, only to be stopped by the guards at the doors to the holding cells. He had argued and persuaded and shouted and bribed to try and get into the room, but had been rebuked soundly. Eventually, Mycroft himself had come out and informed him that he would receive a copy of the interrogation but wouldn’t be able to interview Fisher himself. That was unacceptable. What with the encryption the incoming phone calls to Fisher’s phone had used his tracking software hadn’t been able to provide him with anything other than an untraceable mobile number and the text of a few messages that had simply said ‘Time you called in, Aaron, Petey misses you’. He needed to ask Fisher a few questions of his own if they wanted to get any remotely useful information and he had told Mycroft that at length but his brother had remained firm.

It had taken four weeks for Fisher to break – honestly, you just couldn’t get the quality of truth serum these days – and three more days to persuade Mycroft to let him ask his own questions.

Mycroft had furnished the report, as promised, but it had been discarded aside so he could go in with no preconceptions. Most of it wouldn’t be any use anyway. Mycroft would want to know how Fisher had been recruited, how long he had been furnishing information, what sort of information he had been passing on, whether there were any more men on the inside that they didn’t know about etcetera, etcetera, etcetera. Blah, blah, blah. Sherlock wanted to know about the doctors and mechanics being taken off the streets and whether there was a connection to the collectors near Thorpe.

John seemed rather shocked when he told him they were going to see Private Fisher. The doctor had probably forgotten the man existed it had been so long since his arrest.

Unsurprisingly, Fisher didn’t look well. As Sherlock sat down opposite the Private, with John taking the seat next to him, he couldn’t help noticing how pale Fisher looked, as well as the bags the Private had gained under his eyes. Still, there were people on the streets who looked much worse. At least Fisher was being fed regularly.

Sherlock sat and observed for a moment, arching his fingers together as he composed himself. He sat still and silent long enough for Fisher to start fidgeting and for John’s gaze to burrow into the side of his head.

“What’s four oh seven seven,” he said, after about five minutes of silence.

Fisher met his eyes for only a second before looking down at the table.

“It’s just a code, I dunno.”

Sherlock didn’t say anything.

“There are just these codes,” Fisher continued after a while. “I don’t know what they mean; I just heard them from time to time. Like Holby and Quinn and Dolittle and that one.”

“Who did you hear saying the codes?”

“I told the other-“

Sherlock abruptly waved him into silence. He didn’t need to know what was in Mycroft’s report. Obviously the other insiders would know more than Fisher, otherwise they wouldn’t have set the Private up for this fall. How was it helpful to know that someone he wasn’t currently interviewing and wouldn’t get to for some time had the information he wanted?

He needed what little information Fisher could give him on the matter and that all came down to one source.

“What about Petey? Did he ever use them?”

Fisher looked annoyed at the reference to his brother. “No, he never said anything about what they were doing. Nothing important, just day-to-day stuff, you know? I told the other-“

Again, not interested.

“Did Petey ever talk to you about the people they were bringing in?”

Awkwardness seeped into Fisher’s annoyance. “He didn’t talk about people. Not about what they were doing or where they got them or anything. I didn’t… He would never….”

Sherlock let out a tsk of irritation. Fisher’s guilt over his brother working with collectors, of helping the collectors himself in his brother’s name, didn’t concern him. Was just a hindrance to the information he wanted. He was therefore glad when Fisher lapsed into silence, actually thinking about what he was saying for once.

“Sometimes he would talk about deliveries. Having to sort them out or unload them and things. I never asked what was in them and he never went into detail.”

The man had clearly tried to maintain the illusion that it was items rather than people. The capability for normal people to delude themselves really was endless.

“Was there any mention of special deliveries?”

Fisher shifted in his seat. Skirting this close to the human cost of his brother’s actions was making him clearly uncomfortable. Good.

“Yeah. Yeah, he used that exact phrase and everything. Wasn’t very common but once or twice he’d mention a special delivery that they’d just got in and he hoped that would mean his lights didn’t flash all the time. Or one that they’d been expecting that hadn’t turned up.”

“But he never mentioned doctors or engineers, mechanics, electricians, plumbers, anything like that?”

“No, he never said anything about what the deliveries were. He did mention a doctor once. Mentioned he’d been patched up, didn’t say why, and that she was nice. Pretty. Joked that he’d get hurt again to have another go at her. That was the only time he ever mentioned doctors, I swear.”

“Doctors.”

Sherlock turned to look at John who was staring at the table curiously and had said the word speculatively as if trying to find out what it felt like in his mouth. After a moment John seemed to sense his gaze and looked back up at him, frowning.

“Quinn,” John said, still looking thoughtful. “Dolittle. They’re both doctors. And Holby is a hospital.”

“Where?” Sherlock demanded immediately.

Was it important? It had to be important. How?

“On TV.”

Sherlock’s heart sunk. He had honestly believed his friend was onto something but if this was just some stupid popular culture reference-

“Holby City, it’s a TV programme, and so is Doctor Quinn, Medicine Woman. Doctor Dolittle is a book. The codes, they’re all-“

“-Doctors.”

“Yes.”

God, he could kiss the man. He almost did.

“I theorised the codes might be in reference to missions or attempts to get hold of the people of interest,” he said, his whole attention now on John who was watching him with the most wonderfully attentive eyes. “But what if they actually refer to the person. Each code refers to the individual doctor. So Quinn refers to a female doctor. Holby-“

“Could be any doctor, I think the show was just general medicine. But Dolittle wasn’t a proper doctor at all, he talked to animals.”

“A vet then,” Sherlock said, putting aside the ridiculousness of the concept for the confirmation that these collectors had animals of some kind. “What about four oh seven seven?”

“MASH,” John said with certainty. “I used to watch it as a kid. MASH four oh seven seven, it was about a medical unit in the Korean war-“

“An army doctor.”

He watched the implications of that dawn across John’s face with an awe he didn’t think would ever fade when it came to things relating to John Watson.

“Me?”

“We know they made an attempt to get hold of you.”

They were never going to get another chance. He wouldn’t let them.

“I’m four oh seven seven?”

“The group who tried to grab you and Henry are the same that set up the M25 attack and planted men inside this base,” he waved briefly at Fisher who was looking utterly perplexed by the whole conversion. “They are very organised. How could I have missed this?” He turned back to Fisher. “How did I miss this? Did you pass them anything about me?”

Fisher looked panicked. “No! Except… before. Right before I…” he looked around the cell. “I had to tell them whenever the team went out and you were going out the same time as us so I had to tell them. Not where you went or anything, I couldn’t, I didn’t know. But if I didn’t tell them and they found out-“

“Yes, yes,” he waved Fisher into silence again. “I’m sure you told the interrogation team about your motivations in detail.”

“But the only trouble we ran into that time was Henry and David,” said John, “who had nothing to do with the collectors. I don’t think they’re interested in you.” John gave a wry grin. “Try not to be too offended.”

He brushed off the humour that replaced the brief dent to his ego and jumped to his feet.

“But they knew about you,” he said, pacing. “I have a comprehensive database of the whole of London and even I didn’t know about you. This level of organisation couldn’t have just come out of nowhere. Look at this place. The government have been working on this programme since the Cold War and even that had a basis in Second World War complexes and plans made as far back as the Napoleonic Wars. These collectors didn’t come out of nowhere. In order to have the contacts, the reputation and the coverage to pull all of this off they must have been a serious force long before the Event. So who are they?”

He turned back to the stunned looking John and Fisher and slammed his hands down on the table.

“Tell me who they are.”

“I don’t know!”

“Give me a name.”

“They didn’t tell me anything. I don’t know.”

“A name!”

“I don’t know!”

Sherlock whirled away from the table, his mind a buzz. He had to speak to Mycroft, find out if MI6 had been aware of anyone before the Event. But first he had to be fully prepared. He couldn’t expose himself to his brother without first having all the relevant information. He needed to know when and how Fisher had been recruited – there was no point asking the man, all that information would be in the notes from Mycroft’s interrogation – anything that could narrow down who was organising all this. Then, if Mycroft couldn’t furnish a name, he would have to go out on the streets and talk to his contacts there. Find out who was making a big name for themselves in the city’s underworld shortly before the Event.

He had to find out. Had to discover how something this big could have been hidden in his city without him knowing about it. Even a name would do. Who had bested him? Who had beaten him at his own game?

Fisher now irrelevant, he swept out with nothing more than a backwards call for John to follow him. With the rush of a soon-to-be-solved case running through his veins he fiercely clamped down on the traitorous thought that it could be the last case he would ever have to solve.

 

~

 

Sherlock joined him for dinner that evening with a look of grim determination that John was able to translate as, ‘I have just spent time with my brother who is a colossal arsehole’. It was a look John knew well and sympathised with completely.

“How’s Mycroft?”

“Useless,” Sherlock said, stabbing at the meal in front of him with venom. “He could tell me there was a big name starting to make itself known – which is completely obvious from the evidence – but couldn’t tell me what that name was. We’re going out tomorrow.”

The last sentence was said bitterly and John found himself smiling at the image of Sherlock begging his brother to be allowed out to play but being told to wait until light the next morning. The image was rather helped by the fact that Sherlock was clearly sulking about it.

“You’ll have to find something else to entertain you for tonight,” he said between bites of steak and kidney pie.

“How am I supposed to give anything else my full concentration with the case at the forefront of my mind?”

Sherlock waved his hands around his head in a frustrated gesture that made it look like he was physically fighting through too many ideas.

“Well, switch it off then?”

Sherlock gave him an astonished look and John realised what an impossible notion he had just given voice to.

“Why don’t you watch a film with me? I’ve got ‘The Thirty-Nine Steps’ out on loan, it’s an absolute classic.”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes as if suspecting a trick. “I’m out of biscuits.”

John laughed. “I’m sure we’ll make do.”

They both returned to their meals, Sherlock attacking his with a little more relish than usual as if eager to get on to the film.

After dinner they had to go to John’s room to pick up the DVD. Once there John didn’t see the point of going all the way back to the lab like they usually did when they watched something in the evenings together when there was a perfectly serviceable bed right there. So he hopped on the bed, rested the portable DVD player on his stretched out legs and patted the covers beside him. It wasn’t until Sherlock’s comfortable warmth was rested against his side that he realised what he had done.

It was the first time John had ever invited Sherlock into his bedroom and the first time in three weeks that Sherlock had ever been in his bedroom for something other than sex. What the hell was he doing?

Then, ridiculously, he found he couldn’t hold in a giggle. What they seemed to be doing was dinner and a movie. They were having a date first for a change. He’d never had a date with a man before and now he was having one with Sherlock? It was… he let out another giggle.

Sherlock stared at him incredulously, no doubt confused as to what he was finding so funny about the DVD start screen. He quickly pressed play.

Maybe Sherlock wouldn’t want to have sex? No, there was no way Sherlock was going to hold back when he had practically offered himself up on a plate. He was just going to have to watch the film and then try to enjoy himself.

 

~

 

The film, like many of John’s choices, was utterly ridiculous. Did that submarine just rise up in the middle of a loch? Preposterous.

He pointed it out to John who laughed and said he had never noticed that before. There was something off about the laugh, though. It was a little strained and as the film reached its conclusion John seemed to get more and more uneasy.

As soon as the credits were over Sherlock snapped the lid of the portable DVD player shut and placed it on the floor. He reached over to John’s shoulder and squeezing said.

“You’re tense, let me help.”

John turned towards him and he let his fingers drop to the buttons on the other man’s shirt, undoing them one by one. His eyes remained locked on John’s the whole time. His lover’s eyes were calm but searching, as if trying to read his thoughts through his pupils. He only dropped his gaze when all the buttons were undone and he could push the shirt off of John’s shoulders and spread his hands across John’s chest. He ran his fingers across the flesh there, admiring the way John had filled out since he had come to the Enclave, looking much better now he wasn’t half starved.

It was strange, the number of times he had seen John naked in the light, the number of times he had tasted John’s bare flesh in the dark, he had never done this. Never undressed him like a present when he could take in the sight of every inch being slowly revealed to him and not just the feel.

“Lie on your front,” he said.

John immediately kicked off his shoes then pulled off his socks before turning to lie flat on the bed. Sherlock smiled at John’s manners and followed suit, pulling off his own shoes and socks before kneeling up on the bed to straddle John’s waist.

He slipped his hands across John’s back, feeling the tight muscles. John was always so tightly wound up, like a spring ready for action at the slightest moment. Sherlock wasn’t sure John had ever relaxed completely since he had come to the Enclave. Knowing John as he now did he would suspect it had in fact been longer than that; since before the Event, most likely before John had even been shot.

As he pushed his hands in and started to unwrap the muscles with long, smooth movements he thought that maybe he could do something about that. The thought made him feel powerful, to have someone as mighty as John come apart under his fingertips.

It took only a few minutes of his attentions for John to give a low moan of pleasure.

“How are you so good at this?” John asked, muffled by the pillow. “And why haven’t you done this to me before?”

Sherlock let the smile take over his face, knowing that the other man couldn’t see it.

“It’s all about anatomy,” he said, rubbing small circles into John’s clenched shoulders, making sure to be delicate around the old bullet wound. “Knowing the layout of the muscles, how they are connected and how much pressure is required,” he pushed in forcefully with his thumbs causing John to yelp in pain then exhale a blissful sigh as the pressure was released, “to tame them.”

He made his way steadily downward, eliciting increasingly obscene groans from the man underneath him that sent sharp stings of arousal down his spine. He would think John was doing it deliberately if it wasn’t for the way the other man was practically melting into the mattress. The more relaxed John seemed to become the more tense Sherlock became – or at least one part of him became.

He reached around John’s front to undo his trousers and John shifted up to allow them to be pulled down. The movement brushed his growing hardness against the curve of John’s backside and he unwillingly let out an obscene moan of his own.

God, he couldn’t believe how hard he was. He wondered if it would be possible to come from the noises John was making alone. He wondered if he could make John come by just talking. There wasn’t much dirty talk in their sex life, perhaps they should introduce some as an experiment.

No, focus. John’s trousers.

He pulled them off of John’s hips then John flattened himself back down as he moved to one side to pull them all the way down.

He climbed back over John and returned to the massage, this time concentrating on the area of lower back that had just been exposed. John let out a contented sigh and shifted against the covers as if trying to burrow further into them.

Sherlock smiled. How lucky had he been to find this man in the ruins all those months ago? How wonderful was John to let Sherlock into his bed night after night? How much did he love the man underneath him?

He planted a kiss on the base of John’s spine then smiled at the small gasp this induced. He continued to work at the taut muscles with his fingers while at the same time lathering the sensitive spot with his lips and tongue. Both soothing and working John up at the same time.

John let out a small, “ah!” as a knot was smoothed out then his arm lifted to tug on the loose folds of Sherlock’s shirt. Sherlock couldn’t help agreeing. Far too many clothes. As he climbed off the bed to undress, John turned his head to watch him with eyes clouded by drowsiness and the rise of lust. Sherlock undressed slowly, trying to give his lover a show. It was so against the norm for them to be like this, to have this kind of openness, he wanted to savour it. Then again his trousers really were getting uncomfortable. He stripped them and his boxer-briefs quickly, letting out a sigh of relief as his cock was finally allowed free. John’s eyes immediately seemed to lock on it. Sherlock stood still a moment, recalling that it was the first time his lover had really seen it. Felt it, squeezed it, tasted it, been breached by it, yes, but in the light John always kept his eyes politely above waist level. He wasn’t now though. Sherlock revelled in the attention, pleased that they were still finding new things to do with their relationship, still keeping from getting bored.

He was never going to get bored of John, he was determined. The very idea was simply inconceivable.

He stroked himself languidly, still putting on a show for John. Soon though, he grew impatient and decided that contact was needed right that instant. He reached for the lube he had taken to storing in the gap between John’s bed and the laundry basket then switched off the lights so they wouldn’t have to worry about getting up if they were too exhausted later before climbing back onto the bed.

His first task was to plaster himself against his lover’s side and seize John’s lips in a kiss he had been waiting all day for. John returned it as enthusiastically as always, digging fingers into Sherlock’s hair and pulling him closer even as Sherlock ravaged John’s mouth with his tongue.

His second task was, naturally, to rid John of the final barrier between them, namely the pair of offending underwear. As one hand tore them away the other slipped under his lover’s body to grasp John’s penis and squeeze. John hardened quickly under his fingers and whined a little when he took his hand away. More soon, he promised with a silent stroke to John’s thigh.

Returning to his previous position of straddling his lover’s legs he resumed the massage; concentrating, teasingly, on John’s arse, caressing his buttocks and skimming the hole with his fingers. He took it slowly, gently. His own erection throbbed for attention, for contact, but he concentrated on John, only John. On showing the other man just how much he cared through every touch, every kiss and every breathless cry. He was richly rewarded when, after pausing a moment to apply lube to his fingers he circled the hole with featherlike touches before pushing the very tip of the digit inside.

“Oh god!”

John spoke! Okay, it was more like a moan than actual speech but it was amazing. Eager for more, he pushed the finger in further.

“Oh guh!”

How much would it take to have John cry out his name? God, if he could get John to cry out his name as he came across the sheets he would be a very happy man indeed.

He pushed, stretched and opened before slipping in another finger then crooking them at the perfect angle to-

“Oh good-“ John shouted before flattening himself back against the pillow and continuing, muffled, “God. Oh god.”

No, no, no, he wanted to hear it!

He reached one arm around John’s waist to lift him up onto his knees then moved John’s head from his pillow – taking the opportunity to plant a small kiss on John’s ear as he did – in order to steal it away. He decided to use it to prop up John’s arse into a comfortable position before returning his fingers to John’s hole and started to scissor them.

“God!”

Why was God getting all the credit here?

John’s whimper as he removed his fingers sent so much heat coursing through his body that he had to take a moment to compose himself before reaching for the lubricant again. Smothering some over his fingers he reached around John to grab his cock, his lover thrusting wantonly into his hand at the slightest touch. He kept up strokes that were achingly slow, even for him, and lay himself across John’s back, using his other arm to hold him tight to his chest.

“Say my name,” he whispered.

“Sherlock.”

So breathless, so needy, so _perfect_.

“If you want it you have to say my name.”

He gave a slight flick over the head with his thumb.

“Guh- Sherlock!”

John’s neck was too irresistible, he had to taste it, lick it, kiss it. John gave a heated sigh and tipped his head to the side so he could reach more easily and he couldn’t resist a momentary joy as he thrust his hips for gorgeous friction. He couldn’t hold off much longer.

“Do you want me?” he said. “You have to say if you want me.”

“Yes!” John shouted. “Sherlock, yes!”

He wasn’t going to hold off any longer. Ignoring John’s frustrated whine as he pulled away completely he grabbed for the lubricant again, fumbling with it in his desperation. At least they weren’t using a condom; he wasn’t sure he had the time or the remaining brain power to get one on but thankfully they were both tested so stringently ridiculously often they didn’t need one.

Finally he slicked himself up then, with a swift push, entered John.

They both gasped at the sudden sensation. The warmth, the tightness, the feeling of John all around him, he had waited too long it was too much. Propping himself with one hand and wrapping the other around John’s chest he paused for a moment, controlling himself, panting atop of John, feeling John’s heartbeat through his palm. Then finally he moved.

As he thrust he slid his hand back downwards to stroke John in time, twisting and squeezing and timing his hits against John’s prostrate to maximise John’s vocalisations.

“Sherlock!”

“Say it, John, say it.”

“Sherlock!”

“Oh just you, just you, going to make me come.”

“Sherlock, I’m gonna, I’m gonna.”

“Please, John, please!”

“SHERLOCK!”

He was helpless, utterly helpless to resist as John contracted around him, screaming his name like it was the only thing in the world, filling John and knocking all the breath out of his body.

He collapsed against John’s back, wanting nothing more than to melt into the other man, feeling as relaxed and boneless as if it had been him having the massage. There was no way he was going anywhere else tonight.

He hummed contentedly, slipped out of John and tilted himself onto his side on the bed beside the other man. When John turned over Sherlock smiled lazily at him and pulled him into another kiss. A soft one this time, just their lips caressing each other.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter will be Saturday while we all brace ourselves for the tears to be shed on Sunday.  
> This year’s Annual (well we did it last year, one more go and it becomes a tradition: FACT) Sherlock Holmes Anniversary Meetup is taking place in London on 28th and 29th January and I’m going. It was such fun last year so I really would encourage all of you who can to come along. Details can be found [here](http://sherlock-meetup.livejournal.com/22381.html).


	12. Chapter 12

That was different, John thought as Sherlock cleaned them up – with John’s shirt as usual – then threw an arm and a leg over him and clutched him tightly before nuzzling his nose into John’s neck.

Realising the other man meant to spend the night there John set about loosening the death grip Sherlock had on his side and rearranging the other man’s limbs so the pointy bits weren’t digging in anywhere. He had to do this while Sherlock was still conscious and pliant because, as he had quickly learnt, once the man was asleep he was practically a corpse, impossible to manoeuvre and seemed to gain about six stone. Add to that the fact that Sherlock was all skin and bone and angles and it was important to make sure to get the man in a comfortable position before the uncomfortable one stuck. Sherlock merely hummed contentedly as he was pushed and pulled until finally John had him where he wanted him and Sherlock drifted off, still holding on as if John was the world’s most cuddly teddy bear.

John settled back to stare at the ceiling. He wouldn’t sleep. He never slept afterwards, even when Sherlock didn’t stay. This did have the unexpected bonus that it had effectively killed his nightmares as he was always either too exhausted to remember his dreams or waiting for it to be early enough to go get a cup of coffee, which was nice he supposed.

But that night he found himself not minding so much. He felt content and relaxed. It must have been the massage. Sherlock had the hands of an angel….

Sherlock roused at about five am, gave him a sleepy smile then kissed him softly with just the tiniest hint of teeth to tease at his lower lip.

“Morning.”

“Morning.”

He remained perfectly still while Sherlock untangled himself and executed a full body stretch before half climbing, half rolling out of the bed.

“I want to make an early start,” Sherlock said.

It took John a moment to realise that the other man wasn’t proposing a round two but rather their trip out to… wherever. Sherlock hadn’t actually said but then he rarely ever did, trusting that John would follow along obediently.

“I’m going to go get ready,” Sherlock went on, pulling on his clothes from the previous night. “We’ll leave in half an hour.”

“Any idea how long we’ll be?”

He would have to text Tom Wearing and warn that he wasn’t going to be around that day and – and this would really annoy the surgeon – possibly not available for football for three days afterward depending on what Sherlock had planned.

“Should only take the morning,” were Sherlock’s final words before he breezed out the door, looking as smart as always to the point where no one would ever guess he was doing the walk of shame.

John stretched, taking a moment to linger in Sherlock’s abiding warmth before getting out of bed himself, grabbing a towel and change of clothing and heading for the showers.

He was just getting his boots on, looking forward to a hot cup of liquid caffeine when there was a knock on his door. Sherlock never knocked, just came straight in as if he own the place, and everyone else tended to contact him on his phone first. Who else would come to see him?

“Come in?”

It was Seb with an air of excitement, shark-like grin firmly in place and a mobile clutched firmly to his chest.

“I was looking for you yesterday,” he got in before the colonel could say anything.

“You won’t believe what I’ve got to tell you,” Seb said, ignoring him.

“Fisher’s alive!”

“You remember that place I told you about, The Farm? I- what?”

It was the first time John had ever seen Seb look stunned. He looked almost pale.

“Fisher,” he said. “He’s not dead like we thought. He’s been locked up this whole time. He’s-“ looking pretty damn awful but still very much, “-alive.”

“He’s still here? Is he talking?”

“Seems to be, yeah. I guess that’s why they’re keeping him around, for the information. But from what you said I thought they were going to put a bullet in the back of his head.” And his. “But…” he frowned. “What’s with the phone?”

Seb had been staring off into the distance, a look of deep concentration on his face. “Huh?”

“The phone, I assume you sought me out for a reason.”

“Oh,” Seb blinked. “The Farm. I got an in.”

“What?”

Seb’s face seemed to transform, all shock at Fisher vanishing in an instant with the predatory grin firmly jumping back into place.

“I told you about that place, The Farm. The whole fairytale gig with food and shelter and everyone working together, that stuff.”

“Yeah,” John said, doubtfully.

He remembered very well that it couldn’t possibly be true. It sounded like the biggest kind of con to him.

“It’s real.” Oh no, and Seb was about to fall into its trap. “It’s all completely true but the place is so secret, invitation only. You can only get in if someone already in there is willing to vouch for you. Who you know and all that.”

He paused almost dramatically.

“And you know someone,” John said, figuring that was the line Seb was waiting for.

John wouldn’t have thought it was possible but somehow Seb’s grin got wider.

“No, but you do. Harry.”

John felt like all the breath had been knocked out of him. “Harry?”

Seb took the phone away from his chest and offered it to him.

“She’s there, John. She’s there and whole and alive and she’s on the phone right now. Doc, you’ve got to get us in. You have to take me with you. I need this place.” Seb pushed the phone into his hands. “Talk to her!”

It wasn’t true. It was a trick. It was a hallucination. It was a lie. It couldn’t possibly be that his sister – his dead sister, she had been in Chelmsford, it had burned, he thought she was dead – was on the other end of the phone. He didn’t want to lift it to his ear. He didn’t want to speak to whoever was on the other end of the line. He didn’t want to kill that tiny bit of hope inside him when he found out it was a mistake, some other Harriet Watson who just happened to have a brother called John.

He had to know for sure. He was never going to find out unless he tried.

He put the phone to his ear, took a deep breath and said,

“Hello?”

It sounded more confident than he felt.

There was a shuddering breath on the other end of the line and then a trembling voice asked,

“John?”

This time it was like a ten ton sledge hammer to the chest.

“Harry?”

There was no hiding the shock, the relief, the regret and the joy from his voice that time.

“Oh god, John.”

She was sobbing down the phone. He hadn’t heard his sister cry for over thirty years. He couldn’t believe it.

“Harry, are you alright?”

“Oh god, John, I thought you were dead.”

“I’m sorry, Harry, I’m so sorry. I thought… I didn’t… Harry….”

“John, you’ve got to come and get me, please.”

“I will.”

“Please, John, please come.”

“I promise I’ll come and get you as soon as I can. I’ll- Where are you?”

“I- Please, John. You’ve got to come.”

“Where are you?”

“I know,” interrupted Seb. “I can take you there, if you’ll let me come too.”

He nodded, anything for Harry. “I’m coming for you, Harry,” he said down the phone. “I’m on my way.”

“John, I’m sorry.”

“I’ll see you soon.”

“Joh-“

The phone cut out.

“Harry? Harry!”

Seb took the phone from his hands.

“The signal probably cut out,” Seb said. “It’s a bit sketchy out there. Whenever you’re ready to go, I’ll take you.”

Now. He was up and ready to go right now. He didn’t care how long it would take or if they would need a vehicle, this was his sister, he had to look out for her. She was alive! He couldn’t believe it. He had to get her. Maybe if he talked to Sherlock-

“Shit! Sherlock.”

He looked at his watch, his half hour was nearly up. He hadn’t even managed coffee. Who cared about coffee when his sister was alive! Actually alive!

“I’m supposed to be meeting him.”

“You can’t tell him,” Seb said, dark and serious. “You may think he’d help you but if his brother found out he’d take over the place. Oust everyone who doesn’t meet his criteria of useful. These people, your sister, are trusting us not to let on, you can’t tell him.”

That was going to make things a hell of a lot more difficult. He would have to get out of whatever they were supposed to be doing that day. No, Sherlock would insist. And even if he managed to persuade Sherlock to stay put then the other man would just hang around like a lost puppy and he’d never get away.

He would have to go.

“Okay, I won’t. But I’ve got to go-“

“Whenever you’re ready,” Seb said. “Come see me. I’ll get us out of here.”

“Thanks,” John said, grabbing for his jacket. “Thank you. Thank you so much. Harry… thank you.”

“Go!”

He took off at a run.

 

~

 

The corpse of a helicopter lay rotting in one of the long defunct fountains in Trafalgar square. Those pieces of Nelson it had brought down with it when it crashed that hadn’t been stolen by idiots who thought a souvenir of the times was a good idea were scattered around it. Apart from that there was remarkably little damage to the square. The National Gallery had been looted, grafittied and vandalised but the four lions were unmarked and the plinths were all undamaged. Even the bodies, which had covered nearly every square inch of the square after the riots, had been cleaned up and swept away. It was almost as if the city was waiting for the good times to come around again and wanted the traditional place of such celebrations ready and gleaming for that eventuality.

As they strode past it all Sherlock couldn’t help notice John seemed a bit on edge. Most likely uncomfortable with being so out in the open like this. It was a dangerous part of London. The abundance of plush hotels and embassies made it a hot spot for the gangs who always liked to set up somewhere nice and a view of the square was always considered a bonus. But then the idea was to be spotted, at least by one particular gang.

Raz was waiting for them by the time they reached the rear of the gallery.

“You looking for trouble, Mister Holmes?” Raz said, leaning up against one of his own spray painted creations – a gun crossed with a hand torch like a shield – with the kind of casualness that was so false it didn’t take someone of Sherlock’s remarkable intelligence to read the tension in the young man.

“I’d like to speak to Gunner,” Sherlock said.

Raz flinched, then said in careless tones as if he hadn’t been in the slightest bit affected,

“Gunner ain’t about anymore. Rex is in charge now.”

There was something in the way Raz was holding himself. Some kind of injury? Not a smooth takeover then, but Raz had survived and was still in the gang in some shape or form.

“Who’s Rex, I’ve never heard of him.”

“New starter.” Now Raz sounded cautious as if nervous his words would get back to Rex. “But very good at what he does.”

Would have to be to take over from Gunner. Before the Event Gunner had had his fingers in at least half of the drug distributing in the city, two thirds of the illegal weapons and it was a rare item of stolen goods that didn’t pass through his hands at one point or another. Yet despite all this he had stayed so far under the radar not even Sherlock had thought it worth his time to go after him. Although he had had his spies in Gunner’s old circle of course – better to keep everything where he could see it rather than risk it being divided up among newcomers who might be less subtle about it. After the Event Gunner’s gang had been one of the more surprisingly stable ones. They had taken territory and used violence – and Gunner’s handy dandy weapons backlog - to keep it and take supplies but they had also fought off collectors and restrained from taking on more than they could manage. It was almost feudal. It was practically civilised.

But now this Rex had come along and taken over. Hadn’t even destroyed the old gang to steal the resources and area, but kept the old lot – at least some of them, hence Raz’s continued survival – and put himself on top of the heap.

That took considerably more resources than someone supposedly new to the criminal underworld. Interesting.

“I think I should meet Rex,” he said with a smile.

 

~

 

The last time John had set foot inside an embassy it had been during the Rugby trip to Norway. It seemed that his mate Gary had not only managed to get on a plane with a traffic cone but without a passport. They had had to go to the embassy in Oslo to sort it out - a task made more difficult when Gary had got nervous at the last minute and instead of admitting he had left his passport in England had claimed it had been stolen by a group of travelling circus folk. The official – who Gary kept insisting on calling Madame Ambassador – had tried to throw him out for being drunk, which to be fair he was. John had been sober enough at the time to manage to talk her down but still drunk enough to think he had a chance at chatting her up.

This place, he thought as they entered the imposingly sculptured building that sided Trafalgar square, was completely different to the boxey office in Oslo. It was far more opulent and richly decorated, had far more bullet holes in the walls and the security had much bigger guns.

Sherlock relayed his request to meet with the gang leader and the woman on guard went to tell Rex while her male colleagues searched them for weapons. He was suddenly glad the weapon Sherlock had handed him that morning hadn’t been his Sig for a change. With the trouble he had gone through to get hold of it he would have hated for it to fall into the hands of these thugs. That said, it might have been nice if Sherlock had told him what sort of situation they would be walking into that morning since the other man had obviously foreseen this or something close to it. Especially when the woman came back accompanied by man holding an even larger gun than any of his colleagues and a foul expression on his face.

For a moment John thought it was Rex who would take one look at them, decide they weren’t worth the bother and pull the trigger. But then the woman gave a quick nod and indicated with a flick of her hand that they were to follow her. Sherlock immediately strode after her while Raz slunk along behind looking as if he would rather be anywhere else. John just took a deep breath and followed at Sherlock’s heels feeling as though they were being led into the lion’s den, closely pursued by a man with a weapon so large he had to be compensating for something.

The corridor they were led down obviously wasn’t part of the bureaucratic area where the country’s equivalent of Gary dealt with visa issues. The carpet was too rich and the pictures on the wall were far too fine for that. Clearly they were entering the area where the ambassador entertained foreign dignitaries and other VIPs. Their audience with Rex was obviously going to take place in style, although John highly doubted there would be Ferrero Rocher on offer.

“Are you sure this is a good idea?” he whispered to Sherlock.

“All my ideas are good,” Sherlock replied.

“What about that time you persuaded Matt to let you back in with the cows and the cheese tasted funny for a week?”

“Ah, in that instance the idea was sound, it was the execution which let me down.”

He had to quickly bite down on a grin which was completely inappropriate for the situation. Sherlock’s answering smirk was unrestrained.

“In here.”

The doorway they were very pointedly nudged through led to some kind of reception room with velvet curtains, comfortable looking settees and elaborate tables with what had once been white tablecloths. It was obviously still in frequent use as someone had gone to the bother of repairing the windows with clear plastic giving the light in the room an unearthly quality. It also reeked of cigarettes and the smoke from the freshly lit one in the hand of one of the men standing in the chamber hung low across the room.

“I won’t offer you one,” the smoker said watching them with narrowed eyes. “They’re a bit of a short commodity these days.”

John could only assume this was Rex. The man reminded him more of a snake than the dog his name suggested. Rex had what seemed to be permanently low slung eyes, dark waxy hair and moved with a casual grace that bordered on predatory.

Two other men, both heavily armed and with unamused expressions stood at the back of the room.

“What have you brought me then, Raz,” Rex said, dropping bonelessly onto one of the sofas and indicating with his hand for them to do the same. “I keep you around to fetch me information, not people.”

“What about people with information?” Sherlock said, not sitting.

John followed suit.

“Well that’s another matter,” Rex said. “Raz, get lost.” Raz didn’t hesitate and took off out the doorway at a run. “You two, sit.”

“We’d rather stand.”

“I’d rather you sit.” Rex’s eyes flicked to the two guards who had followed them in and now stood by the door.

Sherlock stood perfectly still, smirking slightly. Rex sighed and made a lazy movement with the fingers of his left hand. The two guards stepped forward, the woman laying a hand heavily on John’s shoulder while the man did the same to Sherlock. They were both pushed until they sat on the sofa in front of Rex.

“That’s better,” said Rex without smiling. “Who are you?”

“I’m Sherlock Holmes and this is my colleague Detective Inspector Lestrade.”

John didn’t let his confusion as to Sherlock’s lie show on his face. Why would he hide John’s identity but not his own?

“Many of my associates won’t like having a police officer around,” Rex said.

“He’s not a police officer any more than you are an auctioneer now. So at least you don’t have to worry about him arresting you for money laundering.”

Rex’s reply was a long drag of his cigarette followed by a slow exhale.

“What do you want?” he asked eventually.

“A name,” said Sherlock, straightforward.

A flicker of something approaching an expression went across Rex’s face. “And what are you offering?”

“What do you want?” Sherlock said. “More cigarettes? I can track down the factory and give you the key. Fresh vegetables? That can be arranged. Got a craving for anything currently off the menu and I’ll see what I can do. Trade, now and future, whatever you want.

“That’s a steep price for one name.”

Sherlock smiled. “Oh, but you know which name I’m after. Someone whose notoriety was on the rise in the criminal underworld before the Event. Someone with resources and power and who only gained more of both with the death of most of the population. Someone who, say, would be very useful to know if you were an honest auctioneer fed up of seeing lots of money going to people other than him and wanting to change that in a dishonest way. The same sort of someone who could put such an ‘honest’ auctioneer in a very powerful position very suddenly in post-Event society. Name your price for that name.”

Very slowly a smile crept over Rex’s face without revealing his teeth or reaching his eyes. It creeped the hell out of John.

“Nothing,” Rex said. “No deal.”

Uh oh. What had Sherlock gotten them into now? He couldn’t die here; he had to go get Harry.

Rex indicated to the two guards standing behind them with the hand still holding the slowly burning cigarette.

“Show them out.”

As the man and the woman who had originally shown them into the room walked them back down the corridors he was certain ‘Show them out’ was an unsubtle euphemism for ‘shoot them in the back of the head, they know too much’. Tense and on his guard he was therefore ready for the blow when it came. He was rather less prepared for it to come down on the male guard, rather than on Sherlock or himself. He stared at the female guard as she stood over her unconscious colleague and gestured with her gun towards a side corridor with an abrupt,

“Down here.”

“What’s down here?” he asked, questioning whether it was wise to have said that before the words had finished leaving his lips.

It was a bad idea to anger the woman with the large gun. Even if he was fairly sure he could take her and she had successfully interfered with Rex’s plans to have them ‘shown out’. Unless of course they really were being shown out and now this woman was taking them down the corridor to be shot for some imagined slight.

Sherlock didn’t seem at all bothered. In fact, he couldn’t be sure, but John was fairly certain he was picking up on a general aura of pleased smugness emanating from the other man as he perused the indicated corridor with interest.

“Kayla,” was the abrupt reply from the woman.

Kayla turned out to be a teenage girl curled up in one corner of an enormous king size bed leaning over the side to throw up into an obviously overused bucket. She was thinner and paler than Sherlock with short wispy hair and streaked makeup.

“It’s okay,” he said, going to her immediately and dropping to his knees beside the bed. “I’m a doctor. I’m here to help.”

“You said he was a DI,” said the woman suspiciously, still standing by the door with Sherlock.

“What would Rex have done if he had known he was a doctor?”

As he reached for a towel to clean Kayla up he looked around, curious.

“Sell him on to the highest bidder,” the woman said, grimly. “Or maybe keep him. It’s hard to tell with Rex.”

Well that explained why Sherlock hadn’t mentioned he was a doctor then. But it didn’t quite explain why Sherlock had given him a false name. Especially the name and proper title of someone who did exist.

He turned back to his patient who was staring disgustedly into the bucket and groaning.

“Can you tell me what’s wrong?” he asked, doing his best with the towel.

She huffed a laugh and flopped onto her back on the bed.

“She was Gunner’s before,” the woman said in an oddly lifting voice as if telling them all a bedtime story. “I smashed his head in for what he did to her. Rex called me loyal Lucy. I liked that. But Gunner left her with a little present.”

Kayla groaned and rubbed at her stomach as if the reference to her condition made her feel even worse.

“Morning sickness?” he asked.

“All the time sickness,” she said in a low croaky voice. “Every meal I just feel nauseous but you gotta eat when Rex says you can.”

“Some nausea is perfectly natural,” he told her in a tone that was only reassuring through years of practice.

Unfortunately the only thing he knew to recommend was to eat at least a little as soon as she was hungry instead of waiting for a set time when the nausea could catch up with her. But when the food supply is being strictly controlled by someone else that wasn’t a possibility.

“If Rex finds out he’ll send her away,” ‘Loyal Lucy’ continued.

Kayla sat up to look at her and John turned to follow suit. Lucy was gazing at the teenager with a faraway look in her eyes.

“There was this other girl who was pregnant too and he told me about the place he was sending her to. They shut them up somewhere to have the babies. Some noble clap trap about continuing the population. If Rex finds out Kayla’s up the duff he’ll lock her away and make her have it. You take her somewhere and help her get rid of it and I’ll give you that name you were after.”

All eyes turned to Sherlock.

“How do I know it’s the right name?” Sherlock asked.

“I’m putting my baby sister into your hands, you think I’d risk lying?”

“Motivation to tell the truth doesn’t necessarily equate to ability to give me the facts I need.”

She narrowed her eyes at him. “I’m Loyal Lucy. I know who Rex reports to.”

She took a pen and what looked suspiciously like a policeman’s notebook out of her pocket. She quickly scribbled something, ripped the sheet out, folded it in half then pressed it into Sherlock’s hands saying,

“The name no one dares say.”

“How poetic.”

John watched as Sherlock opened the piece of paper, gave the contents barely a half second’s glance without the slightest hint of emotion then looked back up at Lucy and said,

“I assume there’s a back way we can get out of here?”

Lucy leapt into action immediately, tucking the notebook away and rushing over to pull Kayla from the bed.

“Come on, Kay,” she said as she threw her sister’s arm around her shoulders. “Move your fat arse.”

 

~

 

They managed to get three corridors away before they were stopped, which gave Sherlock plenty of time to add to his observations of the gang’s headquarters. He had gained a good picture as to what had occurred during Rex’s takeover. The marks on every other wall as well as the remains of badly cleaned up blood splatter told him this wasn’t simply a case of Lucy ‘braining’ Gunner and Rex taking over. Rex had far more serious firepower than Gunner had ever had, so it was no wonder so many like Raz had stayed out of fear. It was obvious the building was far more populated than he had ever seen before – even if those observations had previously been made at a distance – so it wasn’t too much of a shock that they were found so soon.

It also meant that Rex’s gang were going to start spreading and collecting extra resources very soon and very quickly. As an armed man came around the corridor he tucked that fact away for later review.

“What are you doing?” the newcomer asked. “What are they still doing here?”

Lucy, who had been bringing up the rear while Sherlock led and John supported Kayla in the middle, spoke up quickly.

“That’s exactly what I was trying to find out,” she said. “Now you’re here you can help me take them to the exit.”

The man frowned. “What’s Kayla doing with them?”

“I’m helping too,” Kayla said.

Lucy shot her a look which showed she thought the teenager was being as unhelpful as Sherlock did.

“She’s not well,” Lucy said, improvising remarkably well. “I was taking her back to our room when I came across them, so I thought that if these two clearly didn’t fancy leaving when they were so nicely asked they might as well lend me a hand.”

The man narrowed his eyes and raised his gun. “We’ll take them from here, you take Kayla.”

“I’ve got it covered.”

“Dan!” the man shouted over his shoulder while lifting his gun to point at John.

He saw Lucy close her eyes and a pained expression cross her face as the sound of footsteps approached from around the corner.

“Take Kayla,” the man continued, “and step away from them.”

Lucy opened her eyes, sighed, said, “Ah, hell,” and shot him straight in the chest.

Not good, Sherlock thought as he recalculated the odds of them getting out of there alive. He had to work in this city and now they had just pissed off the most powerful gang in it. Not to mention the fact that they still had to get out of a building full of said gang who were heavily armed and about to be very angry. Very much the opposite of good.

He saw John nearly drop Kayla in an instinctive reaction to go see to the fallen man but it seemed to pass quickly and the doctor instead tightened his grip on the teenager.

“I never liked him anyway,” Lucy said, as the man gurgled his last breath. “Come on.”

She charged past and into the lead. Realising that left him to cover the rear he remained to watch behind them while John carried Kayla further along the corridor. As it turned out that meant it was him who was exactly in the line of fire when the second man came round the corner, saw the dead man and pointed an army issue SA80 A2 rifle straight at him.

His mind instantly began a whirl of the most effective evasive stratagems all the while one, slightly odd, thought drifted over the top.

 _Better me than John._

“Dan!” Lucy screamed, sounding convincingly scared. “Help!”

Before shooting Dan in the side.

“Run!” she said, back to her unfrightened tone.

Shouting followed them, not just from behind but from all directions. The whole building seemed to be mobilising against them and slowed by Kayla it wasn’t long until footsteps started closing in. Lucy threw him the gun and ordered him to cover them while she helped John to lift Kayla and speed their departure.

Cover them? How did-

His finger found the trigger and a he let off a quick round, the recoil jamming his arm back painfully. The pursuing footsteps backed off a little, the shouting moving further away. That was simple. And rather fun.

“Sherlock!”

He turned back and ran to keep up, following Lucy, John and Kayla along another hallway and then down a set of stairs. If he wasn’t mistaken they were somewhere near the kitchens. There would have to be a back door around here somewhere.

Shouting above him. He turned, aimed and-

“Aargh!”

Pain, white and hot, knocked him off his feet. It felt like someone had taken a sheered knife and slashed it across his side. No, not a knife, a bullet.

There was another scream, female.

“Lucy!”

“Sherlock!”

John’s voice. Then moments later John’s hands on his, but not staying, grabbing the gun. The sound of bullets above his head echoed strangely like tiny explosions at the base of his skull. He didn’t waste time looking to see whether John had met his mark. This was John. They would be fine. Everything was better with John.

He turned his head to look down at his side, twitching away his jacket to look at the wound. It didn’t seem too bad, just a flesh wound really. But there was a lot of blood. Should there be that much blood? And it hurt. God it hurt.

Then John’s hands were back, running down his side, ripping away the blood-stained shirt. Those wonderful-

“Aargh!”

What happened to the magical healing hands of a doctor? That bloody well hurt!

“You’ll be okay, Sherlock,” John said in a calm even tone that he found immediately irritating.

It was the sort of tone that was well practiced for using on weak victims. Of course he was going to be bloody okay, this was just a scratch. They needed to get out of here and would do it much better if John would stop his bloody fussing and bloody poking!

“Aargh! I’m fine!”

“Keep pressure on it,” John said pushing Sherlock’s hand onto the wound.

John pulled at his shoulder, rolling him onto his side and then over onto his knees. He hissed as the wound stretched and twisted but did his best to keep his hand pressed down to stem the blood flow as he struggled onto his feet, John’s strong hands under his arms pulling him up. Lucy was on the floor at the turn of the stairs, blood pooling around her and a neat bullet wound in her shoulder. It would match John’s, he thought a little vaguely.

“Get down to the bottom,” John said. “See if you can spot the kitchens but don’t go too far.”

That wasn’t much of a possibility, he thought as John abruptly let go and he had to scramble for the wall to keep himself upright. Still, he thought as he took a few hesitant steps down, getting steadier as he walked although still needing the wall for support, he was better off than Lucy. He could hear the woman was crying with the pain but at the same time mumbling, “Go,” “Good cover,” “Take her,” and “Please.”

At a sudden cry from Kayla he turned slightly in time to see John, gun strap now slung over his shoulder, pulling the girl away. She struggled but he held on with a tight grip that wouldn’t be broken. A grip Sherlock could testify to being very tight indeed when his own arm was seized in one of similar strength and he too was pulled down the stairwell slightly faster than was strictly pain free. John practically shoved the two of them through the door at the bottom then fired off a few shots at a few people peering over the banister at the top before grabbing Kayla again as she made a break for her sister. This time he physically threw her over his shoulder, grunting a little at the effort even as the teenager kicked, screamed and demanded to be let go of.

It hardly seemed worth all this effort if the idiotic girl didn’t want to go in the first place. But he had given his word and one never knew when it might be useful to have an ally like Lucy about. If she survived.

John’s free arm weaved across his shoulders and the three of them headed off towards the kitchens as quickly as one man carrying one struggling teenager and supporting another injured man could manage. He had been right, they weren’t that far away at all and, thankfully, by the time they reached there Kayla had stopped fighting and was merely crying instead. When John dropped her abruptly she merely took a few toddling steps away from him and sniffed miserably while the doctor launched into action, slamming the door behind them then shoving a chair under the handle.

Sherlock barely had time to take in all the details of the kitchen before a folded tea towel was being shoved into his bleeding side.

“Hold that there.”

A hand pressed to his cheek and suddenly John’s concerned eyes were gazing into his, the other man’s face just inches away from his own.

“How are you doing? Are you all right?”

He was in fact dithering between considerable amounts of pain and an adrenaline rush driving him to get the hell out of there. But the other man’s eyes were darting all over his face, – no doubt checking for pupil dilation and other medical concerns – his hand warm on his cheek, his face so full of emotion for _him_ and his lips were so tempting that he lifted his free hand to cover John’s and kissed him.

When he pulled back John’s face was a picture of shock. The other man looked completely gobsmacked, as if Sherlock had never kissed him before.

“Not the time?” he asked.

John shook his head minutely.

There would be plenty of time later.

“Fire exit,” he said, letting his eyes roam the kitchen, taking in the angles, the layout, the storage, the day-to-day uses until, “there.” He quickly, mentally ran through the building layout he had observed on the way in. “Comes out just below street level by the main entrance.”

There was a bang at the door they had just come through.

“Right.” John took the gun in his hands. “Kayla, help him.”

The teenager was barely on her own feet, but he allowed her to tentatively put her arm around his shoulders while John dashed off towards the other side of the room. He didn’t dare put too much of his weight onto her so shoved the tea towel into her hands to push into his side – forcing her to push more firmly at her initial tentativeness – and concentrated on propelling them in John’s direction by launching off the counters and tables with his free arm. That became far more difficult when, closer to the exit, the useable flat surfaces grew further apart and the gunfire outside made concentrating on anything other than ‘John’ a secondary priority.

John reappeared in the doorway, ear bloody. John was hurt! He reached for the offending article with his free arm. John just dodged under it and used it to almost lift him off his feet as he dragged the three of them outside.

“Just ricochet, I’m fine. Come on!”

Every one of the steps just outside the fire exit jarred his side enough to make him grunt in pain. John didn’t let them stop, just kept them heading onto the street in front of the embassy, pausing only to occasionally check over his shoulder.

The road was far too open and exposed but there was a narrow back street off the side of the building that headed towards the river. He steered them in that direction trying to put as much distance between them and the embassy as possible. The gang would be out for revenge but it was unlikely that Kayla would be considered so important that her ‘rescue’ would be their top priority, and it was even less likely that they would want to risk moving out of their territory, so the further they got away the safer they would be. Except that they were going nowhere fast.

“We need a car,” John said.

Difficult. There were plenty of parked cars, but very few on the road with the keys in the ignition. Most of those had probably been joyridden away months ago. While it was unlikely that their pursuers would risk coming too far into the open against John’s proven precise gun they might easily take advantage if the three of them were trapped in a car for the indeterminable length of time it would take to hotwire a car.

Wait. There. Perfect. It was even facing the right way, an old Ford Fiesta Mark II. He steered them towards it.

“That looks like it was built in the stone age,” Kayla said.

“The eighties,” Sherlock said.

“I’ve driven much older and much worse,” John said, reaching through the window frame to open the door. “Although not without the key.”

“Ford Fiestas of this age have no immobilisers,” Sherlock said as John pushed the front seat forward and pushed Kayla into the back. “No RFID chips,” as John climbed across the front seats until he was in the driver’s seat. “And the tumbler pins were notoriously unreliable,” he said as he climbed into the passenger seat, wincing slightly as his side jarred again, and closed the door. “All adding up to the fact that you only need this,” he took his screwdriver out his pocket. “To start the ignition.”

John snatched the screwdriver, pushed it into the key slot and twisted. Sure enough the engine started after a minimum of fuss and with a clacking noise that would have worried any true owner of the vehicle. For a moment John’s face lost the serious concentrated look he had worn throughout the escape and lit up with delight.

“You’re brilliant,” John said.

Sherlock found it very hard to resist a grin when John praised him in that awed tone, so he didn’t. John put the car into gear with a disturbing screech and thunk, then sped them away.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope to get the next chapter up Wednesday. Please note I said ‘hope’. The next chapter needs serious work, possibly even rewriting from scratch and probably lots of beta consultation. Am going to try and do as much as I can this weekend but if Wednesday comes and goes and there isn’t a new chapter please don’t yell at me too much, I’ll get it up as soon as I can.

For the first time since he had arrived at the Enclave, John finally truly understood what everyone had meant when they talked about Sherlock’s ‘strays’.

Sherlock’s straightforward, “This is Kayla. Her sister did me a favour, so I said she could come here and have an abortion,” was met with barely an eye roll from Lestrade and they were let in without any further problems.

‘Sustained exposure to the outside population’ meant the long route decontamination and its requisite blood tests and poking. Even though he now knew the names of all the medical staff and who was likely to be called in for attendant duty, he still couldn’t tell who it was underneath the hazmat suits. At least whoever it was listened to his instructions to get Kayla properly scanned and examined, and depending on exactly how far along she was – although Kayla was so skinny she couldn’t possibly be that far along – to schedule in the procedure for later that week once the teenager had had the chance to build up her strength with some proper food.

While Kayla went through the tests necessary for initial entry into the Enclave he took Sherlock aside to finally attend to the other man’s wound. It wasn’t that bad, just a slight clip to Sherlock’s side. While it would require stitches and would probably hurt for some time it had at least missed the intestines, although he would be a lot happier when it was properly disinfected.

After administering no doubt much needed painkillers he took his time getting all the threads that had passed from Sherlock’s clothes and the tea towel out with tweezers, then carefully washed the wound with saline. Sherlock remained silent but craned his head around to watch him work, an almost child-like fascination on his face. It was rather endearing actually and he had to work hard to keep from smiling.

He finished cleaning the wound but held off on the stitches for the moment, covering it up with a waterproof dressing instead and helping Sherlock to the showers. The showers with the multitude of chemicals most of that really needed two hands to apply properly. The two hands that Sherlock couldn’t spare as the combination of the painkillers kicking in a flagging of his energy resulted in him having trouble just propping himself up.

Right.

It was the first time John had ever showered with one of his patients, although admittedly not the first time he had showered with one of his lovers. Even excluding showers where getting clean was not the main purpose he had plenty of experience. At university he had gone out with a girl in his class called Peta for four months. They had both been so useless at getting up in time for class after a late night together that they had often showered together as a way to save time. Comparing Sherlock to Peta was even weirder than comparing him to Aiden. The only thing they had in common was that John now knew how it felt to wash both of their hair.

Sherlock’s had more tangles but was oddly softer and he wouldn’t object to running his fingers through it more often.

Sherlock didn’t reciprocate any of the cleaning efforts and instead just watched him while he applied the body soap to himself. The other man’s sharp examining eyes taking him in entirely in a way that should have been far more disturbing and less arousing than he actually found it.

He only paused in the final medical room long enough for them to collect their new wristbands from Helen before he dragged the other man off to the Infirmary to stitch him up properly.

Sherlock remained oddly quiet, a faraway look on his face as John pushed him to lie down on a bed and removed the temporary dressing. It was only when John began numbing the wound that the other man spoke in a hushed tone,

“Moriarty.”

“What’s that?” John asked without looking up from what he was doing.

“The name.”

“The name you were after?”

Still concentrating on his work he couldn’t see the frown but could hear it in Sherlock’s tone when he snapped,

“Of course the name I was after. What other names are important?”

“None worth getting shot for, I guess.”

Sherlock waved the hand closest to him vaguely. “Barely a scratch. Hardly hurts anymore.”

“No?” He reached for the needle and thread then jabbed.

“Ow!”

“Sorry about that. Guess you need some more anaesthetic then.”

He felt the glare.

There was another few minutes of silence before a finger was ran across the shell of his ear, tracing the same route a certain tongue tended to follow. He swallowed.

“You should put a plaster on that,” Sherlock said.

What? Oh, his ear.

“It’s just a nick.”

“Now who’s the one brushing off his wounds?”

“Except that this is just a scratch on my earlobe no worse than a piercing. You have a gouge out of the side of your body, so I think you deserve a bit more of my attention right now.”

“Well I won’t argue with that,” Sherlock said almost under his breath.

John tried not to smile.

“You could make my job a lot easier though if you avoided this sort of thing,” he said after another small pause.

“You do realise that if you are suggesting I should have dodged the bullet that is rather hypocritical of you?”

“No, I’m just saying you shouldn’t be so reckless.”

“Reckless?”

“It seems that every time we go out we end up getting shot at.”

“That’s a gross exaggeration.”

“Not by much.”

“There are a many instances when we were outside and no one shot at us.”

“Really?” he asked, finally looking up after injecting one final dose of anaesthetic.

Sherlock wasn’t looking at him but was gesticulating with his hands as wildly as he could while trying to keep his body as still as possible.

“Take, for example, the first time we met.”

John raised an eyebrow. “And we were attacked by those thugs?”

That wasn’t much of an argument against his.

“But you were the only one who was armed. And while you did shoot in my direction, geographically speaking, you weren’t shooting at me.”

John shook his head and turned his attention back downwards. He tested the skin with another prod of the needle, gentler this time.

“How’s that?”

“I already explained that since the only one shooting was you-“

“No,” he looked back up. “I meant does this hurt, right here right now?”

“Oh,” Sherlock turned his attention back to him, looking mildly surprised as if he had forgotten John was there for anything other than a pleasant conversation. “No, that’s fine.”

Then, after a moment.

“Do you concede the argument?”

“Yes, fine,” he said. “You don’t always get shot at.”

They both fell silent as he concentrated on the stitches for a while. Even though he was using the thickest thread available this would probably need eight. After he had finished five he said,

“But you’re still reckless. I thought you didn’t have scars but they’re all waist down. You’ve got one over here,” he nodded towards one on Sherlock’s thigh just down from where he was working, “that looks like a car knocked into you and I don’t even know what happened to your toe.”

Sherlock started to shift as though he was going to bring his foot up for inspection but John laid a careful hand on his leg to stop him. Instead Sherlock remained still when he said,

“I got it caught in a mouse trap. I was twelve.”

John sucked in a breath in sympathy.

“They had no problems reattaching it.”

“You lost your toe?”

“No,” Sherlock said as if it was obvious. “It was right there. I just picked it up, put it on some ice then got Mummy to drive me to the hospital. As I said they reattached it with no problems and it hasn’t affected my balance to any significant degree.”

There was a pause during which John finished the final stitch and he was glad he had finished as it probably would have been bad to have burst out laughing when he was still mid stitch after Sherlock went on to say,

“Of course that spelled the end to any hopes I may or may not have had of becoming a professional ballet dancer.”

The mental image of Sherlock in pink tights and a white tutu hit so hard he almost fell over from the force of it. If anyone could pull off that look, Sherlock could. He would look so _elegant_.

Once he could stop laughing he straightened up, beamed a smile at Sherlock and said, “Tragic, you would have been so good at it.”

Sherlock frowned. “Of course I would.”

He laughed again then didn’t resist the urge to place a hand on Sherlock’s chest and kiss him.

When he pulled back Sherlock looked equal parts delighted and surprised. It took a moment for it to sink in exactly why that might be. It was the first time he had ever kissed Sherlock without Sherlock kissing him first. It was the first time he had ever initiated anything in this… whatever it was between them. What was he doing?

Sherlock took hold of the hand on his chest and laced their fingers together. Then he started to pull John towards him, all the while shuffling further away on the bed.

What the…? Was Sherlock…? Did Sherlock want to…? No wait-

“Your stitches,” he managed to stammer out.

Sherlock seemed to pause for a moment, considering, then switched the hand that was holding John’s, reversed his shuffling direction then started to guide John round to the other side of the bed.

Brain temporarily shutting down and unable to take his eyes off the man in front of him he followed where he was led then, on reaching the other side, climbed in so he was lying next to Sherlock. There wasn’t much room, hospital beds not exactly being made for two, but he was able to find a comfortable position slightly on his side, curled around Sherlock’s body. The other man seemed satisfied with that. Sherlock brought their still linked hands up to his mouth and planted a kiss on John’s knuckles. Then he clasped it firmly to his chest before closing his eyes.

John couldn’t help the small fond smile that crossed his lips. Sleep seemed like such a good idea after the day they had had so he let out a sigh, rested his head on the section of pillow between Sherlock’s head and shoulder and decided to join in.

His brain reengaged only long enough for him to think, _I think I love him_ , before he drifted off to sleep.

 

~

 

Sherlock was woken by a loud bang as a trolley was pushed through the doors of the Infirmary while someone shouted,

“Well call Mr Wearing then!”

“I _have_ called him,” someone – Helen Webber, he recognised her voice – responded angrily.

“He’s going into cardiac arrest!” a third person said.

He sat up, grunting a little at the pain in his side and immediately noticed a distinct lack of John. The space on the bed beside him was cold so it wasn’t that the doctor had flung himself up to assist with the emergency. He examined the scene. In fact John wasn’t there at all.

Fisher was though.

Helen Webber, assisted by a nurse and two of the guards from the cells where Fisher had been being kept, was attempting to resuscitate an unconscious Fisher with multiple shocks from a defibrillator.

“What happened,” he asked, getting to his feet just as Helen shocked Fisher for the third time.

“Sinus!” the nurse – whose name he had never bothered to learn – said.

Helen didn’t answer him. “Do a blood test. I want to check for any abnormalities. Particularly his blood oxygen levels, his skin is completely pink.”

The nurse nodded and set to work. Before Sherlock could ask again the doors were pushed open and Wearing charged in.

“What happened?”

Infuriatingly Helen answered him when he asked.

“Not sure. Apparently he collapsed during his dinner and started to seize. Could be food allergy, his food has been changed.”

“Changed?” Sherlock stepped forward. “How?”

“He was on standard prison rations,” one of the guards said. “But we got notice through today that it had to be changed to a strictly vegetarian diet. He got some kind of vegetable curry tonight.”

“Why the change?”

The guard shrugged. “Medical reasons, they said.”

“Who’s they? Who signed the order?”

“Doctor John Watson.”

John? No!

“Did he give the orders personally?”

“It just came through on the system with his signature on it when the food came down. It checked out so we let it through. We swear we didn’t know he was allergic-”

“He’s not allergic, you imbecile, he was deliberately poisoned.”

“Poisoned?”

Oh for goodness sake, Helen sounded hysterical. Must everyone around him be so incompetent?

“Cyanide poisoning, isn’t it obvious?”

“I concur,” Wearing said, shocking Sherlock to a standstill. “He’s showing all the classic signs and it would have been easy enough to slip it into a vegetable curry. If there’s any left or if he vomited at all I’d like it tested as soon as possible to confirm it before I administer an antidote. Hurry.”

The man was actually mildly capable of his job, how astonishing.

But what was John’s signature doing on the food order? There was no reason for Fisher to be switched to a vegetarian diet other than to offer a meal where the almond smell of cyanide wouldn’t be out of place. John wouldn’t have anything to do with that. Couldn’t.

“Where’s John?” he asked.

The exasperated tone to Helen’s reply told him he wasn’t the first to ask. “I don’t know. I tried calling him but he isn’t answering his phone.”

Sherlock took his mobile out and tried for himself. Straight to voicemail. Why had John turned his mobile off? Something had to be wrong. John had no reason to try and kill Fisher. But no one else knew where Fisher was and it was a rather large coincidence that Fisher was fine in captivity for a month but the day after Sherlock and John had had an interview with him an attempt was made on his life. No, it was inconceivable. But where was John?

Leaving the medical team to their business he headed straight for the security office.

Unfortunately, Donovan was on duty.

“What do you want, freak?”

He aimed for business-like. “I need to know the location of Doctor Watson.”

“I can’t go into the security database every time one of your strays slips its leads,” she said with a smile.

The smile vanished when Sherlock dropped both his hands onto the desk in front of her so he could look her straight in the eye. “You just registered an emergency alert in the cells which then triggered a medical alert in the Blue Zone Infirmary. Don’t you think it should concern you a little if the doctor who should be responsible for that infirmary just happens to go missing at that point?”

She stared him down for a few more seconds, then humphed and started typing something into her computer.

“Records show the last door his wristband was registered at was B202.”

“That’s the corridor to the embarkation bays,” he mused aloud.

“That was an hour ago, no registered activity after that.”

He went round to her side of the desk, leaning over her shoulder to look at the screen and ignored the annoyed expression on her face as she leaned away from him.

“Was there any other registered activity at that door around the same time.”

She clicked a few buttons.

“One other wristband was registered at that door the exact same time as Watson passed through it. Colonel Sebastian Moran.”

Dammit, he had told John to stay away from him.

“What was the last registered activity for Colonel Moran?”

More buttons.

“E2.” She frowned. “He’s left the Enclave? There aren’t any registered excursions for today.”

“Three minutes after he and John entered the corridor right outside together. He cut off John’s wristband and they left together.”

“Someone has altered his permissions,” Donovan said, her frown deepening if at all possible. “So it wouldn’t give off an alert when he left.” She turned her head to look at him. “If you weren’t standing here panicking I’d say this was your work.”

John had left the Enclave the same way Sherlock and John had left a dozen times before. No, it wasn’t possible. John couldn’t be working with Moran, helping him send information on the collectors all this time. John hated collectors. Had shot collectors.

But he had been friends with Moran….

No. John had to have been tricked or forced to leave against his will. His signature had to have been faked. No.

For the first time in his life he didn’t know what to think.

 

~

 

When John had woken up that evening, his head pressed into Sherlock’s curls and his arm wrapped around Sherlock’s chest he remembered what he had thought just before he had fallen asleep and the first thing that went through his mind was, _Shit_.

Because it was insane. It was completely insane. This arrangement with Sherlock had been manageable, he could deal with it, they both got what they wanted out of it. But now he had fallen in love? With someone who had climbed into his bed without permission and was holding his future over his head in exchange for sexual favours? That was about as screwed up as it got. He had even invited Sherlock to his bedroom, was he mad? He had liked Sherlock, he had genuinely liked him as a person and even as a friend but this was… he didn’t know, some really weird version of Stockholm syndrome or something and he had to get out, he just had to.

He had to get Harry and now it couldn’t possibly be a case of trying to talk Sherlock into letting them both back into the Enclave, he had to get them both as far away as possible.

He had gone to see Seb and told him he needed out immediately. Seb jumped at the chance; the man had already been packing. Within ten minutes they were in a jeep driving as fast away from the Enclave as the debris stridden streets would let them.

Now they were free of the city, driving through the countryside heading into the slowly sinking sun.

Neither of them said anything. John was trying not to think about Sherlock or the Enclave or what he and Harry were going to do afterwards. It was tough; the thoughts kept creeping into the back of his mind, so he was forced to retaliate by not thinking at all. That didn’t leave a lot of brain power for small talk. Seb was concentrating on the road, dodging obstacles and keeping to whatever route he must have memorised because the colonel never paused to look at a map as far as John could see. The only time Seb said anything was when his mobile rang about forty-five minutes into the drive. Seb suggested he turn it off lest Mycroft use it to track them, so he obeyed.

It was strange being around Seb when he was so quiet. John was so used to Seb in chatty mode on his breaks, talking about this that and nothing in particular. He supposed this was Seb in concentration mode, like he would be when he was out on a mission. It was a little odd though. John had thought that Seb would be even chattier on their journey due to the excitement of finally getting away to his fairytale. He expected to be bombarded with information about the place but his expectations had clearly been wrong. Seb told him nothing about where they were going. Not a thing.

Shortly after the phone call they took a turn towards the north and over a bridge over a motorway. John started to pay more attention to their surroundings. The only place name he recognised was ‘Woking’ but they seemed to be heading in the opposite direction to that. They were on ‘Windsor Road’ but that didn’t necessarily mean anything.

“Where is this place anyway?” he finally asked as they went past signs for ‘Sunninghale’ which could have been anywhere quite frankly.

Seb chuckled. “Somewhere the Enclave lot would never expect.”

“Do they know we’re coming?”

“I called ahead,” Seb said, shark-like grin firmly in place. “There might even be a welcome party.”

That sign said ‘Ascot’. As in the race track? Wasn’t that not too far away from Sandhurst? He needed to get a grip on where they were if he and Harry were going to get away. They were going too fast for him to see the next sign.

Seb took a turn off through an open gate and into what looked like it had once been a country park. There were fresh grass and new plants everywhere, the shoots and beginnings of a new forest beside the old, burnt one. Except that John could see tree stumps through the torn and tattered remains of the outer trees of the old woods. Too deep into the trees to be the Event and too cleanly cut to be the weather. They had been chopped down recently by someone. In fact, by the looks of it, quite a few had been chopped down. They had to be close.

Then he saw it.

“Bloody hell, that’s Windsor Castle!”

Seb grinned. “Yep.”

“That’s the place?”

“Yeah.”

“You said it was a farm.”

“Don’t worry, there’s a farm too.”

There were also two men, armed to the teeth, guarding a gate where the long straight road through the grounds intersected with what looked like a main road.

“Heavy security,” he said, wishing he had his gun with him.

“Has to be,” Seb said.

They didn’t stop but slowed down just enough for the men to acknowledge Seb’s professional nod and wave them on. The men clearly recognised Seb on sight. Despite Seb having said he had never been here before.

 _Shit_.

He reached into his pocket as surreptitiously as possible and tried to turn his mobile back on. He really hoped the cheery noise it made on start-up wouldn’t be audible over the sound of the engine. His hopes were dashed when Seb, without taking his eyes off the road in front, held out his hand and said,

“Hand it over, Doc.”

He considered refusing. He considered that that was probably a bad idea. He handed it over and the other man pocketed it.

“And before you start trying to work out whether you could survive jumping from the vehicle going at this speed,” Seb said in the same tone of voice someone would use to talk about how mild the weather had been of late, “the doors are locked.”

John stared out the window as they approached the castle. He had never been to Windsor before. These were the last circumstances under which he had ever thought he would visit it. Desecrating a royal palace like this seemed so… unpatriotic.

“Do you even have a sister?” he asked.

“Not anymore.”

“Did they recruit you at the same time as Fisher?” he asked meaning, have I been an idiot all this time or just for a bit of it?

Seb laughed. “Fisher was just a lackey. Thanks for letting me know he was still alive, by the way, gave me the chance to remedy that.”

He felt sick.

“No, I’ve been in this game a long time. Look, didn’t I promise you a welcome party?”

There were at least eight armed guards waiting at the gate of the castle as Seb pulled up, all marking him very carefully. He deliberately kept calm. If they wanted him dead Seb could have pulled over and shot him shortly after they left the Enclave. They wanted him for something – had wanted him for three months since the first time they came after him in the West End – and that something involved him being alive. As Seb got out the jeep and walked round to his side he tried not to think about whether the fact that he had killed a large number of their men in that time could alter that assumption.

Seb opened his door and grabbed his arm, so he climbed out of the jeep before he could be pulled out. The guns tracked his movement.

“Arms behind your back,” Seb said, accepting a pair of handcuffs that were offered to him by one of the guards – whose gun didn’t waver during the gesture.

He raised his eyebrow and looked around at the guards. “What exactly do you expect me to do?”

“Let’s just say some of the lads aren’t comfortable being around a trained soldier who can find the jugular vein first time,” Seb said, serious face on. “Especially one who’s killed six of their mates. Now arms behind your back.”

With little choice to do otherwise, he clasped his hands together behind him and turned around.

“You’re a right bastard, Seb,” he said as the colonel clapped the handcuffs around his wrists.

“Language,” Seb said, warningly before grabbing his shoulder and dragging him forcefully into the building.

If the embassy had been lavish this was opulence with a cherry on top. Red velvet carpeting, gold bordered wallpaper, chandeliers hanging from high elegantly decorated ceilings and suits of armour lining the walls. Someone had clearly gone to a lot of effort to maintain the place, or at least made sure someone else went to a lot of effort to maintain it. A young woman in a maid’s outfit and a metal collar paused in her work with a large feather duster to watch them go past. She flinched and skittered back to her dusting when Seb turned to look at her.

“I’d give you the grand tour,” the colonel said as he pulled John along the corridors. “But you won’t need it. You won’t be seeing outside of the one room that often.”

“Where’s Harry?” John asked.

Seb snorted. “How should I know? They would have sent her back to work as soon as I sent word you were coming.”

“What work?”

Seb grinned. “Well, she wasn’t exactly a looker so she won’t be a house slave now, will she?”

He was going to shake off Seb’s grip, kick him in the skin followed swiftly by the solar plexus, back of the shoulders and head. Then he was going to break his own hand to get out of the handcuffs, steal Seb’s handgun then shoot every single one of the group of soldiers who were travelling down the stairs they were currently going up.

“I want to see her,” he said, calmly, leaving Seb’s grip where it was.

“Keep wanting, Doc, not going to happen.”

They went past the group of soldiers who halted immediately and saluted. Seb acknowledged the salute without stopping.

“Right now,” the colonel went on. “His Majesty wants to see you.”


	14. Chapter 14

“The signature was forged,” Mycroft said.

Sherlock unfolded from his perch on the lab stool – a twinge in his side reminding him he hadn’t taken any painkillers since he had woken up – and glared at his brother for expressing what was surely the most pointless statement of the century.

“Of course,” he said, deciding to fight obvious with obvious. “If you had let me look at it I could have told you that immediately.”

It had only been a moment but that second of doubt, of lack of faith in John, haunted him. He had retreated to his lab to think, sitting at the counter with his hands pressed together under his chin for over an hour until he had been annoyingly interrupted.

“And yet the video footage clearly shows Doctor Watson leaving of his own accord.”

“Just because the video shows him walking out unrestrained doesn’t mean he wanted to leave,” Sherlock said, resisting the urge to jump to his feet and pace the length of his lab. 

He would not show Mycroft how much this was affecting him. He would not hand that weakness over to his brother.

“He could have been coerced or threatened,” he said. “’Seb’ could have been manipulating him for months through their budding ‘friendship’. That man was overheard mentioning four oh seven seven; John’s codename. He could have been plotting this since the first time they met, since he saw how effective a doctor John was.”

Coerced was more likely given their use of Sherlock’s techniques for leaving the Enclave which Colonel Moran could only have learnt from John. He had warned John to stay away from the colonel. Why hadn’t he listened to him? Why hadn’t John told him what he was doing?

Mycroft’s face remained irritatingly impassive. “Are you sure you can think of no other reason why he might want to defect?”

Sherlock glared again. “Apart from wanting to get away from you? No.”

Mycroft gave the ‘I’m disappointed in you’ sigh which always infuriated him.

“Sherlock-“

“Perhaps it was a perfectly reasonable course of action to get away from the man who would have taken him away somewhere more secure and pumped him full of drugs.”

“He was emotionally unstable enough to attack you, the least he needed was medication to calm him down. He wouldn’t have been harmed-“

“Except he didn’t need the medication, I proved that.”

“By sleeping with him?”

That ground him to a halt, if only because of the fact that Mycroft knew about him and John. Of course he knew, it would have been obvious to anyone who truly observed – which pretty much boiled down to Mycroft and himself – but still the thought of his brother knowing about his sex life rankled with him. Also that wasn’t the point, of course it wasn’t. Mycroft was just trying to get to him.

“I did warn you he was not in a fit state to return your attachment,” Mycroft said, his tone mockingly pitying.

He frowned. “What are you talking about?”

“I wish you had listened to me instead of simply diving in regardless.”

He couldn’t resist anymore. Ignoring the stiffness in his muscles – it was decided, as soon as John was back they were definitely getting a sofa - he leapt to his feet and stared his brother in the face.

“We were together.”

Mycroft was unfazed, returning his gaze with cold haughtiness. “Are you certain about that? He did just run away, that does rather suggest his feelings towards you are not the same as yours towards him.”

Which goes to show that _he_ knew. “Of course I’m sure,” he said, triumphing in for once having more of the facts than perfect Mycroft. “He loves me.”

“Ah.” Mycroft broke eye contact as if a great revelation was dawning. “That explains the running away.”

Oh for- this was just jealousy. “If you’re just going to be irritating you can leave. I need to work out where he’s gone.”

Mycroft didn’t move. “Tell me, Sherlock, did you say anything to him? Discuss your feelings at all or did you just climb into his bed?”

“I am done with this conversation,” he said turning back to the computer.

It was time to be more active. He would start with what he knew about the collectors and compare his data to the UK Report-

“Yes, I feared as much. Did it not occur to you that he might take this badly? You forcing yourself upon him.”

He froze then turned slowly. If looks could kill Mycroft would have been splattered against the wall. And not even a very close wall. As it was it took all his self-control not to make that fact with more than just his eyes.

“I didn’t force myself upon him,” he said, plainly. “He could have kicked me out at any time.” 

He had expected to be kicked out at any time. He had been thrilled that John had let him stay, had wanted him back. How dare Mycroft question it, attempt to undermine their relationship like this, especially when John needed him most.

“Was he aware of that?”

Oh now Mycroft was being ridiculous. “Of course he was.” 

“Are you absolutely certain of that?” Mycroft took a step forward, unusually threatening. “Are you absolutely sure that a man who had been thrown out of the army, his home, denied permission to continue his calling, been made to feel useless by his own psychosomatic idiosyncrasies, suffered through the most terrible times anyone can imagine, starved, beaten, destroyed, ill and scared of both everything out there that could and would harm him and of the terrors inside his own head, would feel able to say no to the one man who had given him food, shelter, health, purpose and friendship and could, as far as he was aware, take it all away from him again? Are you one hundred percent positive that that man would think he was allowed to say no?”

It felt as if all of his blood had drained out of his body and was pooling around his feet. He felt like his chest had cracked open and his heart was lying on the table top. He felt remarkably like that time he hadn’t eaten for a week and then a suspect had taken a two by four to his head. He couldn’t move a muscle, certain in the knowledge that if he did he would surely stumble and never wake up again.

If what Mycroft had said was true then maybe that wouldn’t be a bad idea.

“He loves me,” he said, falling back on the one irrevocable fact. “He said so.”

 _“I think I love him,”_ John had said earlier that very day just before they had fallen asleep in each other’s arms. The first time they had slept, truly slept, together. He didn’t think John had been aware he had said it out loud. That was what assured him all the more that it was true.

Mycroft placed a hand on his arm and he hated himself for being glad of the support.

“Exactly. Can’t you see why that would frighten him?”

John always fought to stay in control of himself. Never relaxed, not completely, for fear of losing that control. For fear of incidents like the attack in the lab. To fall in love with the kind of monster Mycroft had painted Sherlock as in that speech would be to be powerless.

But to hand himself over to collectors instead? Was that really a better alternative than… Sherlock?

He steeled himself, straightening himself up and let the shutters fall over his face.

“I need to find out where they’ve taken him.”

Mycroft raised an eyebrow. “You won’t be welcome.”

“I don’t care. I won’t leave him to the wolves. If he wants to leave, fine, I’ll let him go.” 

A slight tweak of Mycroft’s mouth showed just how much his brother believed that. 

“But I will destroy any collector who thinks they can lay their hands on him, and if that involves taking down the biggest, most organised of them all then I don’t think there will be many complaints.”

 

~

 

A kick to the back of his legs dropped him to his knees onto the rich red carpet. Raising his head, his gaze found a pair of well-polished, designer and no doubt originally very expensive black leather shoes standing just a few feet away. Further up it met a dark navy, equally well made, suit, a white shirt, a perfectly pressed tie, then finally a humourless smirk under eyes lit up with glee, all wrapped up in a man that would be unassuming if it wasn’t for the waves of sinister that wafted off him.

“Doctor Watson, I presume,” said the man in a lilting Irish accent.

He straightened up, leaning back on his haunches. “And who are you supposed to be?”

A look of mock surprise crossed the man’s face. “Me? I’m the King.” His majesty suddenly smiled widely. “Jim Moriarty. Hi!”

King Moriarty? It sent a quiver of fear all the way down to his patriotic core. He gritted his teeth to stop from saying something that might anger the man who was clearly in charge of the guns pointed at his back and keeping his sister.

Moriarty walked towards him, a slow swinging stride as if he was deliberately taking his time in order to admire the landscape when all the time his eyes were locked on him. There was an intensity there that could rival the Holmes brothers.

“In this brand new world,” Moriarty said, “I’m the one in charge. Mycroft Holmes,” he snorted, “in his little tin can thinks he can hide away for a few years and when he walks out it will all be the same. He can stay in there and rot for all I care. He’s of no interest to me when I have the whole world.”

Moriarty finally reached him and, quick as a flash, dropped down to crouch in front of him and seized his chin. Instinctively he flinched away but the other man held firm.

“But we’re not here to talk about me,” Moriarty said in a low tone. “I’ve won my game.” Moriarty shrugged. “It was fun for a while, which was the most important thing. Even if the ending was a little too easy, you just walking in here like that. Still, I got what I wanted and the Holmes brothers get to learn that I always get what I want. No, let’s talk about _you_.”

Moriarty’s hand stroked down his cheek and he had to fight not to cringe away from the touch. A wild thought ran through his head that only Sherlock should touch him like that but that was a whole kettle of fish he shouldn’t open when faced with a psychopath in front of him. Instead he straightened his chin and put everything he had learned from facing down Holmes stares into use to return Moriarty’s scrutiny. Somehow that only served to make his majesty’s grin wider.

“Do you know what you are, Johnny boy?” Moriarty said. “You’re _life_. Wrapped up in one neat little hoodie.”

Moriarty flicked at his hood then leapt to his feet and, turning, threw out his arms to encompass the entire room.

“People here keep dying and that’s just not what I want from them.” Moriarty spun back to face him, hands in his pockets. “I want them to work, to farm, to mine, to cook, to sew, to do all those boring little ordinary things most people don’t realise they rely on so much. Even the people who do don’t think, don’t plan ahead, just let people die. Am I the only one left alive who thinks?!”

The last sentence was shouted so it echoed through the room. He made sure no fear of the unhinged man in front of him showed on his face but he couldn’t stop himself swallowing nervously.

“They had doctors working on farms. Can you believe that?” Moriarty said, rubbing a hand across his face. “No idea how valuable or how rare they were. Especially ones like you, Johnny boy. I was ready to give you up for lost when Sherlock got you before I could, but then Seb told me how good you were and how you caught Sherlock’s attention. I just had to play after that.”

Moriarty gave a wide handed shrug as if it was out of his control.

“I got other doctors of course, but they just kept dying or making me kill them. You’re supposed to be _life_!”

Another shout then once again Moriarty was crouched in front of him, whispering in his ear.

“But you won’t do that, will you, John? You’ll be the prize of my collection, won’t you? All I want to do is keep people alive. What’s wrong with that?”

“And if I refuse?”

Moriarty leaned back to look at him, an enquiring expression on his face as if trying to decide whether he would really do that.

“Then I’ll skin you,” Moriarty said eventually, “and turn you into shoes.”

He swallowed again, trying not to be sick, and smiling Moriarty patted him on the cheek and stood up once more.

“I think we understand each other,” he said. “Seb, be a dear and take him to the hospital. I’m sure our new doctor will want to get to work right away.”

John stood when Seb yanked on his arm and let himself be led away and out the room, glad to put some distance between him and King Moriarty.

He stayed silent as he was marched along the corridors but kept an eye out to take it all in. If he was going to get out of here he needed to know as much about the layout of this place as possible and he had to find out where the ‘slaves’ were kept.

When Seb pushed him through one final door then let go of his arm he guessed this was their destination. It was a long thin room much like many of the other galleries he had passed, with its luxurious red curtains, finely tiled floor, elegant chandelier and richly decorated ceiling. Except that, unlike the other rooms, this one appeared to have been gutted. There was nothing on the walls and no carpet, despite a difference in shading on the wallpaper and floor that showed where they had recently been. Instead there were mats lined up along the walls, about half of them holding a man or woman dressed in rags and with a collar around their necks attached to the wall by a chain. There were one or two beds, a hodge podge of medical equipment and bars across the boarded up windows. The remains of the chandelier that must have once lit up the room still hung from the ceiling, but unlike in the other rooms no one had bothered to replace the bulbs that had smashed during the Event and instead the room was lit with dozens of what looked like desk lamps bolted to the walls just above each chain attachment.

This was the hospital then, was it?

Seb unlocked his handcuffs and he rubbed at his sore wrists automatically. He resisted the urge to turn around and punch Seb in the face. It probably wouldn’t go down well.

“Okay,” he said, “I’ll do what you want if you just let me see Harry.”

Seb put a hand on his shoulder and said in his ear. “You better hope she gets injured then because you’re not seeing her and you are going to do what we want. Or you could just sit in the corner and sulk while people die around you. What kind of doctor are you?”

He resisted the urge to grab the hand on his shoulder and break Seb’s wrist.

“Molls will show you around,” Seb said, backing off. “Molls! New playmate for you.”

He watched the colonel give one final shark-like grin then leave through the door they had entered. There was a distinct click as the door locked behind him. When he turned back a mousy woman in a white coat, no collar, a black eye and with a frightened expression was standing nervously in front of him.

“Um,” she said. “Doctor Molly Hooper.”

She offered her hand. He took it to shake.

“Doctor John Watson,” he said.

Her eyes widened and she suddenly let out a breathy laugh which lasted only a moment before she clamped down on it with a hand to her mouth.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “It’s just I’ve been on my own here since they took Cathy away and I didn’t- I- I’m glad- well I’m not glad anyone-“

She shook her head as if that would help rearrange her words into something more coherent.

“I should show you-“ she said, indicating the room behind her with a wave of her hand over her shoulder. “The guards just brought in today’s group,” she finally found a firmer tone as if this was something she could deal with unlike a new doctor. “You could maybe help me? Then I could run you through… things.”

It should have felt like collaborating or giving in to Moriarty’s psychopathic demands. Instead it was a fellow doctor in a terrible situation calmly asking him, as a colleague, to help the poor souls surrounding her.

“Of course.”

There were ten patients on the ward which, according to Molly, had the spaces enough for twenty, but had a top capacity of as many as the guards squeezed in. Most of the current patients had cuts, bruises, sores, blisters and every other sign of hard, uncaring work. He administered tetanus jabs and painkillers while Molly saw to a teenage girl who had collapsed from exhaustion. 

As they worked Molly explained that this was the usual lot. While there might be drips and drabs of house slaves dropping in during the day the main load came in from the farm at the end of the working day around nightfall. It turned out he had missed the main drop off while he had been having his interview with Moriarty. Apparently the guards always came with a group which Molly-

“Well, we now,” she said sounding relieved.

-had to triage as quickly as possible, identifying the ones that could be patched up quickly and sent back and the ones to be kept overnight. She- they then had the night to treat them although they were allowed to bargain for more time if necessary.

“We can usually get a day or two if we can guarantee a good recovery. Or if it’s possible for someone to work through their recovery there are a few positions in the house that we can request for them. Sometimes we even get as much time as they really need if a guard likes them.”

A meaningful look was shot to a pretty collectee in one of the beds at the back of the room with her leg in traction. Molly said she had ‘fallen down the stairs’ which was an excuse he knew well of old.

“So it’s not all bad,” said Molly, moving on to a man who couldn’t have been older then twenty with a blistered and bleeding foot. “There are worse places.”

“There are?”

She looked up and met his eyes with a haunted look.

“Yes,” she said without hesitation. “Most collecters just shoot their people where they fall. At least here we get a chance to patch them up. As long as they can work they’re safe.”

“Until they can’t work anymore.”

Molly dropped her gaze. “I- I stopped them from doing the shooting in here.” She gave a little smile. “It wasn’t hygienic.”

His stomach churned at the thought of this sweet woman driven to make a joke like that. As he watched Molly patted the young man on the ankle and said,

“You’re going to be fine. I’ll wrap it and get you an extra day off.”

The man didn’t react. None of the collection did despite their talk. They just stared soullessly at the ceiling above their mats, only talking when asked a question. Molly didn’t seem surprised by their silence and yet she still told each of her patients exactly what she was doing and gave reassurances no matter how much she was ignored.

“How long have you been here?” he asked her.

“Jim- Moriarty set up this place about a month and a half after the Event,” she said. “He- I was in London before that at a place J- Moriarty had there. He picked me up about a week after the Event.” She gave her sad little smile again. “He was nice. He said he worked at the hospital I did - just in IT - and that he knew this sanctuary place for survivors that needed doctors.” She rolled her eyes as if she knew how foolish that sounded now with hindsight. “It wasn’t just me,” she said. “There were three of us at the beginning but… well….”

She was interrupted by the main door opening and two guards armed with handguns walked in. He found himself the object of two wary looks before one of the men turned to Molly and said,

“X-ray?”

“Yes.” She stood. “PP first.”

That clearly made sense to the guards as they didn’t bat an eyelid as she abruptly turned and headed to the other end of the ward. He had assumed the ornate door at that end was locked just like the one he had first entered through, but she opened it without any bother and disappeared into the room beyond. Curious he followed her, closely pursued by the guards.

Beyond the door was a round, warmly decorated room with eight hospital beds, five of which were being used and all of which were surrounded with what he recognised as top of the range medical equipment. Heart beats danced across computer screens and a respirator pulsed rhythmically along. Molly was talking to one man who seemed to be in the middle of a card game with two uniformed and heavily armed men who were sat by his bed. Another man seemed content to read his book, undisturbed by their appearance. The other three patients were sleeping with far more comfort and ease than any of the people in the other room.

“I want to have another look at his hand,” Molly said to the two guards who had followed him in.

Molly and the card players got out of the way so the guards could start to move the bed.

“What does PP stand for?” he asked when the other doctor came closer.

“I could never decide between ‘possible pain’ and ‘punishment promised’,” she said with a smile.

When he failed to laugh her smile faded and she said, “Priority patient. They are first priority for time, resources and attention no matter how minor their wounds may be compared to any other patient. Usually it’s guards or collectors in here but a few of these came in from London today. Do you know how to work an X-ray machine? I had to learn but the one in the next room is quite simple-”

He walked away from her mid sentence as his eyes had suddenly been drawn to one of the unconscious patients, a familiar looking woman with a heavily bandaged shoulder.

“Lucy.”

The group had arrived from London. These were the survivors from their escape from the embassy, shipped here so they could be looked after by a proper doctor, Molly. These were the men and women he had shot.

There was a folder of X-rays next to the bed which he seized and examined by holding up to the light. Then he ripped back the dressing on Lucy’s shoulder and examined the other doctor’s handiwork up close. The bullet had been removed and she had been stitched up well enough but shoulder wounds were tricky, especially when the bone had been shattered as in this case. As had been the case for his own shoulder injury. Lucky for Lucy then that being in hospital after being shot in the shoulder left a doctor with plenty of time to learn the best way to fix that kind of injury.

He turned back to the rest of the room and found himself with the attention of Molly, both awake patients and all four guards – two of whom had pulled their weapons on him. Cautiously he stepped away and raised his hands to show he meant no harm.

“I know a bit about shoulder injuries,” he said, slowly and cautiously. “No offence to Doctor Hooper’s work but I can make her better, give her more movement to her arm than if you just leave her be. Do you have an operating theatre?” 

“There’s a room I use,” Molly said quickly, “with equipment from the hospital. If you need anything a bit more complex-“

“I’ll make do,” he said. “Can you get it ready?”

The guards regarded him uncertainly until Molly turned around and snapped,

“Now!”

They jumped into action, leaving the bed and the bemused looking patient where it was halfway to the door.

“I still want to do X-rays now you’ve got the machine turned on so I’ll need another escort.”

When she turned back towards him with a shy smile he couldn’t help feel she had enjoyed that.

 

~

 

Why was everyone else on the planet so utterly useless? Honestly, he would think that the Event had wiped out everyone who could rub two brain cells together if it wasn’t for the fact that his wide experience of the human race pre-Event had resulted in no one who could really think either.

Unhelpfully, Fisher, who had spoken many times on the phone to someone actually at Moriarty’s base, had no idea where the damn place actually was. This meant having to rely on the small clues he had gleamed from the interrogation, adding them to the UK Report along with everything else he had discovered in the hope of being able to deduce where exactly this place was.

Except that that was another thing. The UK Report. Now he knew why he had restricted himself to London. Even taking into consideration that the geographical distance and range made mapping such an area more difficult than the much closer city, his own London Report was a masterpiece compared to this worthless piece of rubbish. It was hardly worth the megabytes it was taking up on the Enclave’s servers for all the help it was. Had Mycroft ever even looked at it in all this time? Logic said that he must have done, but one glimpse at the report said that if Mycroft had then whoever had been assigned it would have been reassigned to permanent toilet cleaning duties.

If he was going to find Moriarty’s base he needed complete accuracy, so he ended up having to pull in all the excursion reports from the last four months just to correct the map. Then, of course, he hit on the difficulty that so many of the excursions had been led by Colonel Moran, so their conclusions couldn’t be trusted which, he admitted to himself, might go some way to explain the disgrace to the name of logic that was the UK Report. They had known Moran was the traitor for months now, hadn’t anyone thought of making sure someone else wrote a report as well? Hadn’t anyone considered that having information about the outside world that was even mildly trustworthy would be something worth having?

He would just have to interview all the soldiers himself, sort this whole mess out.

He didn’t have time for all this. He needed the information urgently. Why hadn’t anyone just thought for once in their pathetic little lives?

“Sherlock, you should rest.”

And why couldn’t his brother just leave him alone? It was his fault John had run away and his fault he didn’t have the information he needed to get John back, so what, honestly, did the infuriating man think he was going to achieve when he was working so hard to fix his mistakes.

“You’ve been at this for hours, you haven’t eaten.”

He was aware of that. Must Mycroft be so obvious to tell him things he already knew? Why didn’t he do them both a favour and help him find out something he didn’t know? Or, even better, bugger off and let him get on with the work in peace.

“You were shot, Sherlock, or don’t you remember that? You need to take care of yourself. Or do you wish to undo all of Doctor Watson’s good-“

“Don’t talk about him,” he said in what was supposed to be a calm yet threatening manner but which somehow came out as a snarl. “You don’t get to say his name.”

“Killing yourself won’t find him faster,” Mycroft appeared unshaken by his outburst. “You need to give yourself a chance to heal. Stop rushing around-“

“Mycroft, I understand you’re undertaking what you view as your all supreme brotherly duties, but why don’t you do us both the supreme favour and piss off? Consider your duties spent. I’m not stopping.”

“I was afraid you would say that.”

There was a sharp jabbing pain in the back of his neck and he spun around, clutching reflectively at the spot that had been hurt. Mycroft was standing behind him holding an empty syringe and he had never wanted to kill his brother more than at that moment. Determined not to let the slowly lowering fog disrupt those excellent sounding plans he swung a fist at Mycroft, aiming for a certain place in the side of his brother’s neck that would disable him instantly leaving him free to dissect the older man’s body at will. Except his arm was heavier than he remembered and he ended up overbalancing, tumbling off the laboratory stool he had been sitting on while he worked. He would have hit the ground painfully if it wasn’t for Mycroft’s arms catching him and gently lowering him to the floor. He tried to talk, to call Mycroft any number of names and insults, none of which would have been the slightest bit harsh enough for what the other man was doing but he couldn’t make his mouth move enough to form anything other than an indistinct mumble.

He distinctly heard Mycroft say, “I’m sorry, brother, but I couldn’t let you destroy yourself over one doctor,” before he slipped into a dreamless unconsciousness.


	15. Chapter 15

Once Molly was done with the X-rays she joined him to assist with the surgery. She took the role of anaesthetist and was rather good at it for someone whose speciality had been pathology.

“First time in three years my patients have talked back to me,” she said with a wry smile.

 _Barely_ , he thought, remembering the silent, hollow slaves then reflecting that that might explain Molly’s slightly morbid sense of humour. 

They were constantly watched over by two guards who kept guns trained on them, him especially, the entire time. He obviously wasn’t trusted to wield a scalpel unwatched. As they worked Molly talked him through the hospital’s procedures and resources.

Everything was prioritised not according to injury but according to the person’s role. PP’s were of course top priority, but it was interesting to discover that he, Molly and other ‘skilled’ collectees were next, and only then followed by the rest of the slaves in an order chosen purely by the collectors. Then again, if Moriarty considered doctors to be ‘life in a hoodie’ then he supposed they had quite a high value attached.

He asked about her black eye. He had assumed it had been done by a guard for some discretion, but that didn’t match up with the respect the guards seemed to show her. 

“It was a new delivery- that is a new arrival. I have to look them all over when they first get here and one went for me. The guards intervened,” she sounded as if she was reassuring him that the armed thugs surrounding them were big cuddly softies after all. “Shot him.” Or not.

She told him about the other doctors. About Jeremy and Yasmine, who she had started with until Jeremy died of CN41 and Yasmine, who was actually a midwife, was transferred to a separate maternity ward six weeks after their arrival at Windsor Castle. Elaine had joined them at the castle but taken an overdose two weeks later. Ravi had been killed in an escape attempt. Heti and Kiran had been and gone, apparently sent to other collectors in trade. Cathy had been at the castle for two months before they discovered she was pregnant and they had sent her to the ‘maternity ward’. 

“At least Yasmine will be taking care of her,” Molly had said mildly before going on to talk about the rumoured conditions of the ‘maternity ward’, where expectant mothers were strapped down to stop them from ending the lives of themselves or the unborn children that were so needed to create the next generation of slaves and slave keepers. 

He wondered whether Heti or Elaine had been Quinn and which one of Molly’s litany of tragedy had been Holby. This place was what he had saved himself from by shooting those collectors the day he had met Sherlock and he had just walked in. He really was an idiot.

“You’re not,” Molly said, when he told her about the Enclave and how he had got from there to here. “I think you’re a hero. For coming after your sister.”

“Not much of a hero,” he said. “I haven’t even seen Harry, let alone rescued her.”

“But you still came after her,” she said firmly. “That’s what a hero would do.”

 _A failed hero_ , he thought. _Or maybe half of one_.

After the surgery, they were escorted back to the ward and then left to tend to their other patients. It was getting late, but the nap that had taken up most of the day-

_A warm body curled up under his, the feel of Sherlock’s lips against their joined hands, the scent of the man he loved filling his nose- no stop it!_

-meant he was hardly tired, but he was surprised by how little Molly was lagging. She launched herself into her work with what seemed to be a never-ending supply of care, attention and pure heart. After a couple of hours he tried to persuade her to rest but she dismissed him saying that she tended to sleep during the day when there was less to do. All that left for him was to try to keep up.

It was only when everyone was patched up and asleep that they did one final check-up before collapsing onto a mat in the corner of the ward to rest.

It was then that she told him that she had been in a morgue, had lost her mum and thought it was some kind of intense radiation.

The morgue shouldn’t have been surprising given her previous occupation, but the reminder of Sherlock’s answer sent a pang through his heart.

“You’re the second person I know who was in a morgue,” he said.

“Really?” she said. “I thought it was pretty unique. Who was the first? Maybe I know them.”

How to describe Sherlock?

“It was this man I met. Sherlock Holmes.”

She gasped and her eyes widened.

“Know him?” he asked.

“Same morgue,” she said with a slightly bitter smile. “He’s alive?”

“He’s the one who took me to the Enclave.”

She looked at her knees. “Oh. He-“ she frowned. “He could have said. If he was looking for doctors he could have-“ she laughed sadly. “He forgot about me. He did that.”

So Sherlock had had strays long before the Event had ever happened.

“Yeah,” he said. “He can be a right bastard.” A thought occurred to him. “So, what was he doing in the morgue anyway?”

“Flogging a corpse,” she said.

He waited for more detail. When none was forthcoming he said,

“Really?”

“At least he didn’t want to take any of it home.”

The Sherlock talk got them through until sunrise, her telling him tales of Sherlock’s adventures with stolen body parts and him updating her on everything they had been up to since then. It was plainly obvious that Molly had been at least a little bit in love with Sherlock before the Event. At least he wasn’t the only one.

Dawn brought a final set of rounds as the guards would come to collect the patients straight after breakfast and they had to make sure everyone was fine to go back to work. He wanted to make sure they had all those patients who were going prepped and ready to go as soon as the guards got there so he could watch properly when the slaves were released from the chains attaching them to the wall.

It turned out it didn’t matter whether he had finished tending to the patients or not. As soon as the guards came in he and Molly were waved away from the patients and ordered, at gunpoint, to stand by the far wall. He watched Molly to see if this show of force was excessive for his sake, but she seemed nothing but resigned, so he guessed this was what happened every day. 

There were three of them, one armed with a rifle and two just with hand guns. The one holding the rifle covered him and Molly while one hand gun holder stood by the door and the other talked to Molly. She had told him to let her do the talking, so he stood by while she discussed which patients she wanted to give extra time. The guard listened, nodded then, seemingly at random, accepted her request for three of the patients but turned down the man with the blistered feet on the basis that ‘we’ll just get him some extra socks and a new pair of shoes’.

Molly was hustled away and the man took out a key. The patients were released, unchained from the wall one by one and led to the man by the door. He then held the length of chain of the first slave while each subsequent person’s chain was attached to the neck of the previous. 

The rifleman kept everyone in their sights at all times, obviously ready to change direction from towards John and Molly to towards the slaves at the slightest provocation. None of the slaves did anything but move meekly where they were ordered to.

Finally everyone who was going to be rounded up had been and the two handgun holders led the way out the room. The rifleman hung back, watching them until the last possible second before finally going out the door and closing it with a click of the lock.

Molly let out an exasperated breath and said,

“That one always turns at least one down, but he’s not as bad as some of the others.”

So that routine happened every morning but with a cycle of guards? That was something to bear in mind.

“Breakfast?” she asked with a small smile. “PPs eat first, then us, then we can feed the patients.”

Breakfast turned out to be scrambled egg on toast. He had had worse meals in the army.

He was helping Molly dole out the rations to the four remaining patients when one of the PP room guards came to fetch him. Molly had told him that some guards were a permanent fixture and she often used them to keep a closer eye on the PPs when she was in the other room. John had therefore set them to watch over Lucy and come to get him when she woke up.

Lucy was immediately coherent enough to focus on him so she had likely been coming to gradually the entire time they had been in the room eating breakfast.

“You’re that doctor,” she said, peering at him. “Lestrade, right?”

“John,” he said.

Her eyes suddenly widened and for a second he thought she somehow recognised his name until she tried to sit up and demanded,

“Where’s Kayla.”

She cried out in pain as she moved so he pressed her pointedly back down onto the bed and said, “She’s fine. She’s not here. Just stay still,” before going to fetch a dose of painkillers.

He noticed the guards were watching him very carefully as he opened the cupboard where the medication was kept. He showed them the bottle before extracting how much he needed into a syringe. One of them made a note as to how much he was taking before he was allowed to go back to his patient.

She grabbed his shirt as soon as he re-entered range and said, “Well, where is she?” 

“She’s at the Enclave,” he said, unpeeling her fingers from the cloth. “I personally put her on a diet of whatever she wants to build her strength up for the operation.” Free, he injected the painkillers into her IV line. “This is going to help with the pain. Let me know if it doesn’t help or if you feel nauseous. You’re going to make a full recovery and regain nearly all movement in your shoulder, but in order for that to happen you need to stay as still as possible for a few days while it heals. Alright?”

He tried to give her a reassuring smile. She returned it with a look that accurately conveyed how little she bought it.

“So did they get you or did that Holmes guy sell you out?”

“They got me,” he said.

“They get everyone,” she said.

He wondered if that was supposed to be reassuring.

“We’ll have you fixed up and sent back to London before long,” he said.

She narrowed her eyes at him as if she suspected what he had considered. As if she knew he had been thinking about asking her to take a message back to London to get to Sherlock. 

“Sure,” she said, closing her eyes again.

That was close enough to a ‘no’ then. Except he had dismissed that idea as soon as he had thought about it. Why would Sherlock want to send a rescue party after him after he had left of his own violation? And even if Sherlock would want that, why would Mycroft Holmes agree to it?

 

~

 

He didn’t open his eyes when he first woke up. He had learnt from over the years that it was often advantageous if your capturer believed you were still unconscious when you weren’t. Instead he concentrated on keeping his breathing steady and gave himself a few minutes to take in as much information about the hostile environment as possible.

This particular hostile environment was of a mild temperature with a slight hum of machinery and contained at least one other person. Female, judging by the sound of her footsteps. Either that or lightweight male with a penchant for heels. It was best not to rule anything out too early.

He was lying on a bed, not too uncomfortable but hardly a goosedown mattress, his hands secured to the sides with soft restraints but his legs were free. There seemed to be some kind of IV attached to his left hand. He also appeared to be wearing scrubs, possibly the same set he had been wearing after decon after the embassy trip. The same he hadn’t taken off because John had done his stitches straight after they finished had decon and he had fallen asleep before he could change. The same he was _still_ wearing because when he had woken up and John had vanished he had been far too busy working to worry about what he was wearing until Mycroft had interrupted him and-

“Bastard.”

His eyes flew open. He was in the Infirmary, the damn Infirmary, strapped to the bed. Helen Webber rushed to his bedside.

“I have-“

“You like John, Doctor Watson, don’t you Miss Webber?” he said in his most appealing voice.

She looked thrown and stammered an agreement.

“He’s in trouble and I need you to unstrap me so I can find him.”

“I-“

“I can’t imagine what horrors they’re putting him through,” he made his voice break. “Please, Miss Webber, please. He’s my friend and if you care for him at all please just let me help him.”

He stared at her, letting concern coat his face and widening his eyes appealingly. She looked uncertain for a second, her fingers twitching towards the restraints. Then suddenly she took a deep breath, steeled her expression and took a step backwards.

“I have instructions that you have to eat something and when and only when you have done so you will be allowed access to your laptop and any additional data you request.”

“Oh for god’s sake-“

She spoke over him. “You will be restricted to the Infirmary and required to take breaks every four hours during which time the laptop will be removed from you, by force if necessary. It will not be returned to you until one hour has passed and a full meal has been consumed.”

“You can call my brother and tell him to shove it up his-“

“In addition you will be required to sleep for at least five hours for every sixteen hours you work, including breaks.” She was shouting now. “I am allowed to call on any force I deem necessary to uphold these rules, including reattaching the restraints, drugs and removal of the laptop should the rules be contravened. Is that understood?”

She gave him what was probably meant to be a firm look that made her look like a rabbit bravely standing up to a steamroller. He glared at her. She took a step back.

“Reattaching the restraints?”

“Er,” she said. “Yes.”

“I take it that means you will be detaching them at some point?”

“Oh, right,” she gave him an embarrassed smile. “I just didn’t want you running off before I had the chance to talk to you.”

“Well, now you’ve talked to me you can take them off.” He gave her his most winning smile. “What’s for breakfast?”

She hesitated, her hands on the buckle of the restraint.

“I’m going to go get the guards,” she said before fleeing, ruining a perfectly good plan to lock her in the restraints she was about to release him from then getting on with his work without these useless interruptions.

Had he really become that predictable?

~

 

It was unnerving how easy it was to fall into a routine. The days were spent taking care of the PPs, the long term patients and any drop-ins. At about mid-afternoon every day Molly – John didn’t seem to be fully trusted yet – was taken downstairs to the main hall to deal with new arrivals.

“It’ll be time for the harvest soon,” Molly said. “They’re going out every day to make sure there are enough workers.”

“What will happen to the workers when they’re not needed over the winter?” he had asked.

“Oh they’ll find something for them to do,” Molly had told him with her usual humour. “No use wasting a limited resource when they’ll need them again next harvest.” 

The first aid kit she took with her would often come back up severely depleted. Sometimes she would bring one or two people back with her if they needed something more serious, although it was rarely anything more complicated than a shot of insulin or other medication. Anyone found to be worse off than could be treated quickly and immediately was ‘taken care of’ downstairs.

He lost his first patient two days after his arrival at the castle. Her name was Fran and she was unusually chatty to the point where she told him she had lost her parents, her little brother and her twin sister. She had been in a sound booth recording something for a university assignment and she thought the Event was caused by some kind of virus. She had only been a farm worker for a week and had fallen over a stone. Unfortunately, when she fell over the whole chain of people she was attached to had fallen over on top of her. Considering her poor state of health she had been lucky to get away with a compound fracture to the leg, two cracked ribs and just three broken fingers.

They held him back as he shouted and protested when they took her, screaming and sobbing, out to shoot her.

Molly told him later that foot injuries were the worst because it was harder for people to continue working with them. They were almost always fatal unless the slave had someone to speak for them like the pretty woman with the broken leg. 

After that he stopped being subtle in his attempts to gage the layout of the castle and the grounds through his conversations with his patients and started to outright ask if they knew Harriet Watson. 

No one recognised his description. He wondered how much she had changed, if she was using a different name. He even asked if there had been any women talking about their brother John. The woman he had asked gave him a long hard look and told him that no one talked about their brothers and their sisters and their lovers and their children. If they did no one listened because they had their own troubles.

“I don’t recognise the description either,” Molly said to him one night. “That has to be a good sign, doesn’t it? If you’re certain she’s here then you know she hasn’t been hurt.”

“Unless they took care of her downstairs,” he added.

Molly fell silent after that.

One by one the PPs recovered. He was able to discharge three out of the five back to London leaving just Dan – who he was slowly starting to wean off a non-invasive ventilator – and Lucy who as far as he was aware hadn’t yet told Dan that she was the one who shot him.

She was starting to be up and about more often and was even able to go for short excursions outside with the help of one of the guards. She would tell him about the weather and the leaves turning brown when she came back. She was quite friendly after a while, especially when he showed her his own bullet wound and talked through how similarly lucky they had been – in some things at least. She joked that at least she wouldn’t come out with a limp. In exchange he didn’t ask her to keep an eye out for Harry. One thing at a time.

He finally got his breakthrough with a woman called Gertie, who had lost her three children – having lost her husband a few years before – had been in a warehouse shop and who hadn’t really given much thought to why it had happened. She was older than most of the slaves but it turned out she had been specially selected because she was a chef. She ran the kitchens, which was how she had gained the burn on her hand which brought her to the Hospital. She also recognised Harry’s name instantly.

“She made the porridge you had for breakfast this morning,” Gertie said as John wrapped her hand.

He laughed with delight. “What’s Harry doing in a kitchen?”

“Making porridge,” Gertie replied instantly. “And learning. They send just anyone down to me but I teach them and make sure to keep the ones with promise. If I can get them skilled I can keep them safe. No one kills a good cook.”

He could have hugged her. He sent her back to work instead with just a couple of words from him to Harry. Nothing written or with any meaning other than ‘I’m here’ so no one would have anything to punish Gertie for.

He hoped Harry wouldn’t do anything rash like hurt herself to come see him. He wished she would stay put, wait until he was ready to make his move. She was so close! All this time he had thought she was down at the farm or somewhere else far out of his reach. But she was in the same building just a few floors away. He wanted to find a way to the kitchens, despite the corridors full of guards and the locked Infirmary doors.

Except he wasn’t going to grab her and run anymore, those thoughts had passed. There was no way he was leaving this place while Moriarty was still alive.

So he waited, he prepared himself for every eventuality he could and he built up his own possibilities ready to capitalise on them when the opportunity arose. So he was ready when the gunfire started.

 

~

 

When people thought of castles they thought of impenetrable fortresses on high hills with parapets, moats and drawbridges that could only be defeated through long sieges or ample use of trebuchets. They didn’t think of Windsor, which was more palace than castle. 

They forgot that the abandoned town of Windsor that ran all the way up to the walls was perfect cover to get in close. They forgot that Windsor didn’t actually have walkable parapets all the way round for guards to watch the horizon in case of attack and that even if someone was patrolling the roofs the steep angle of the walls made it difficult for them to see one lone figure approaching from under cover unless they looked straight down – which no one ever did. They forgot that many an assassin had snuck into a castle through the hidden nooks, crannies and secret doors and that a working palace and tourist resort had, by necessity, more nooks, crannies and hidden doors than other places. Even very clever people forgot all this for two very important reasons.

Firstly because why would anyone with the slightest bit of sense want to break _in_ to a Collector’s hideout?

And secondly, even if said madman did break in they wouldn’t get very far without attracting a great deal of attention.

They forget that that might be the intention.

It was going quite well, Sherlock thought. The guards may have been equipped with the finest the military had to offer pre-Event, but they were certainly not trained soldiers. They were running around after him like headless chickens and falling into all of his traps. While the oil slicked floors caused rather humorous displays, his favourite was the chemical smoke bomb. It was a deliberate replication of the lab accident that had caused John to attack him; it had seemed appropriate. It had taken out four men and all the others were running towards it, stupid fools, meaning that he was in the Upper Ward before they knew it.

There were brief skirmishes where he was grateful for his baritsu training. The crunch of bones – never his – greeted him everywhere he struck and he had blood on his hands by the time he reached the state apartments. One man – whose kneecap he had fractured, nose he had broken and shoulder he had dislocated if he had done his job properly – had, upon searching, been holding onto a set of keys which were very helpful. From another man he had taken a gun and shot three others in the knees before handing it calmly over to a fifth man when asked who was so astonished at his quick compliance that it was easy to knock him out.

Alarm bells rang, setting the entire site on full alert. Soon the building would be swamped by guards from all over the grounds. Good.

Briefly taking cover in a bedroom he came across one collector in the middle of getting dressed. He knocked the man’s head against the wall, said a cheery hello to the girl who had been left in the bed, then climbed out the window.

The guards who had been heading upwards to get him were rather surprised to find him following them. He locked a set of ornamental doors after them which splintered under a siege of bullets as he dashed away. That was probably destruction of a national historical artefact. Shame on them.

He headed upwards again, making use of a nearby suit of armour when he came across another small group and then taking down two men with a sword. It was exhilarating and he was barely fighting a grin when he heard one of the men underneath the now pile of armour call on his radio for assistance.

He dropped a chandelier on the next group, just because he thought John would appreciate the humour.

They were getting better though, more organised. He could hardly turn a corner without coming across a group too large for him to take on. His attempts to head upstairs were being blocked from every angle and it didn’t take long to realise he was being deliberately driven towards one central point. Obviously a certain military man had woken up.

Setting fire to the curtains was in fact an accident but it was an excellent distraction and got him some breathing space, so to speak, when one group who really should have been stopping him from heading down the corridor which had once led to the state apartments had to stop to put it out. He grabbed a fire extinguisher and helped them, then hit three of them round the head with it before running away.

It was only a short reprieve, however, and soon they were closing in on him, bullets nipping at his heels wherever he ran. Chased by a veritable hoard of guards he cut through an ornate drawing room only to find another group already at the other door to cut him off. With the windows locked and all routes blocked he threw himself to the floor with his hands above his head ready for when the guards burst in.

The doors erupted open in a burst of drama and wood dust, almost certainly putting serious dents in yet another cultural artefact, the philistines. There was a pause, no doubt in suspicion that he had set another trap which would take them all out but which he would cunningly avoid because he was on the floor bracing his head with his hands. Unfortunately that wasn’t the case. The reason he was keeping his hands on his head was partly because if he laid them on the floor it might be too tempting for one of the guards to step on them and partly just in case they decided to get a few kicks in first.

Eventually one of the hoard approached slowly. He looked up and saw a man with a fierce expression and a purple nose. With no better options he decided to address his remarks to this man.

“Take me to your leader,” he said. “I want to meet Moriarty.”

 

~

 

The hospital was abuzz with the ruckus going on somewhere in the building. Everyone, including those who were chained to the wall, which actually made up the majority of ‘everyone’, was trying to peer out the window to see what was happening. When smoke filled the air the room filled with slightly hysterical chatter and suppositions. It was an escape attempt. It was an attack from another group of collectors. It was the collectors, having got bored with the place, burning the castle down with all of them in it.

In an attempt to get a true story John went through to the PP room only to find the guards gone. Lucy was sat up next Dan, which wasn’t out of the ordinary. They were both armed; that was.

“Any idea what the hell is going on?” he asked.

Lucy shrugged. “No clue. The guys said there was some kind of incident that required everyone’s attention. This,” she waved her gun, “is to make sure you don’t try to take advantage of the situation.”

He frowned. “So to make sure we don’t take advantage of the situation they have put two guns in the hands of two injured people whose doctor is a trained soldier.”

It sounded like some kind of entrapment, although it was more likely just ill thought out.

Dan levelled his gun more carefully in his direction but Lucy smiled.

“A trained soldier but also an honourable man who took an oath and would never hurt his patients.”

“You’re right,” he said. “I wouldn’t. You’re perfectly safe.”

Dan lowered the gun.

“Plus the door’s locked so it would be pointless,” Lucy added.

“Best not bother then.”

“Best not.”

The door to the main ward opened and Molly appeared.

“John, I need you.”

Guards had started to arrive, a mix of those screaming with pain and those arguing with their colleagues that they were okay. It was like being in the army again.

A continuous flow of patients were coming into the hospital, dropped off by healthy guards who would immediately leave, the situation outside apparently needing all the men that could be gathered. They were, therefore, only being guarded by the more mobile injured and even they were called away by a desperate sounding message on the radio.

The door was unlocked. He could just go.

Instead he administered oxygen, popped joints back into place and padded heavy bleeding. He dealt with the three gunshot victims while Molly tried to persuade one of the guards to let her have access to the CT machine for the sake of those with head injuries. The machine, which had no doubt been filched from the local hospital, was in a different room though and no one could be spared to escort her to it or operate it themselves. The same applied to the x-ray machine, severely limiting the amount they could do with the broken bones. Instead they were forced into working purely by feel and half measures to support what they could.

They were fast running out of mat space so one of the guards started to unlock the slave patients and move them to the other end of the ward, forcing two or even three to share a mat so a guard could have theirs.

Amongst the noise and the chaos he asked what had happened, how they had got injured. Some could only answer him vaguely, telling about an explosion that turned out to be more smoke than fire, with no clue what happened next, or of being called after an intruder then being struck from behind. One, however, was able to give him a very good description of the man who had knocked him down, broken his arm, then pushed him into a wall. Tall, pale, skinny, dressed in black with wild black hair and,

“Pale blue eyes with this look in them that was just mental.”

He met Molly’s eyes at that and could tell she was thinking the same as him. It couldn’t possibly be Sherlock, could it?

 

~

 

He had a very large and, he added smugly to himself, very bruised honour guard as he was marched along the corridors. It seemed that none of the men were willing to let him out of their gun sights. He was surrounded so tightly that escape was impossible and he couldn’t even see where he was being led.

Finally the crowd parted and he was thrust into an elegant hall with a wooden floor so polished he skidded a little when he was pushed to his knees.

“Please, Sherlock, tell me you’re here to see me and not your little pet.”

The man stood in front of him looked tiny in the middle of the grand room, especially with Colonel Moran towering behind him. Nevertheless, the man smirked at him with all the self-assurance of a creature used to fear and obedience. Determined to give him neither, Sherlock leaned back and swung his legs out in front of him – causing every guard in the room to jump at the sudden movement – until he was in a perfectly relaxed slouch on the floor.

“Moriarty, I take it?” he asked, giving as good as he was receiving on the smirk front.

“You can address him as your majesty,” Moran snapped.

He didn’t take his eyes of ‘his majesty’. “I’ll bear that in mind.”

“Look at you,” said Moriarty. “Trapped, weaponless and defenceless and still so cocky. Aren’t you just _adorable_?”

That wasn’t exactly a word he often used to describe himself so he merely raised a sardonic eyebrow in reply. Moriarty appeared to ignore it and instead turned his attention to Moran, giving the colonel a quick nod. Moran immediately started giving orders, setting up a guard around the circumference of the room, before sending the remaining guards out to deal with the wounded or return to their posts.

“Are you sure you’ve got enough brainless muscle to keep in check one ‘trapped, weaponless and defenceless’ man?” he asked, looking around at his guard.

“You think you’re rather clever, don’t you, my dear?”

He turned back to Moriarty with a smirk. “I rather think I am.”

“Found all the holes in my defences, snuck past all my guards and alarms, set up a few traps of your own.”

“Child’s play.”

“You are a child,” Moriarty snapped harshly, “and big brother’s not here to protect you now.”

He allowed the smirk to fall off his face and a serious look to take over. “You took something of mine. I want it back.”

“See,” said Moriarty, reeling back and gesturing towards him with both hands while his voice became a low whine. “This is what I was talking about! The world ended and you became a sentimental _idiot_!”

The last word was shouted, furiousness descending over his majesty’s features like a curtain.

“I used to watch you, Sherlock. For the first time in my life I thought I’d finally found someone worthy of my attention and- _god_!” 

As quickly as it had come Moriarty’s anger seemed to vanish, his majesty taking a deep breath and seemed to wave the wrath away with a gentle movement of his hand. 

“You used to dance so beautifully,” Moriarty said dreamily. “I thought we were made for each other. I wanted to come up with more and more clever crimes just for you, see which one would finally kill you. I,” Moriarty was staring off into the middle distance, seemingly lost in memory. “I had this cabbie who had the most marvellous trick to get people to kill themselves by offering them two pills. I was so looking forward to you meeting him and choking on your own vomit. It would have been perfect, finding out which was worse for you, being wrong or being dead.” Moriarty sighed despondently. “And then look what happened. What,” spoken bitterly, “is the point of a detective when crime is a way of life for all?”

“What’s the point of a master criminal when smash and grab becomes the norm?” Sherlock asked, fighting down the bitter feeling that Moriarty had hit the nail right on the head – especially when he had just been offered the solution to his final case.

Moriarty grinned at him. “Exactly. So I branched out.”

“Became a collector.”

The grin became almost impossibly wider. “More than a collector.”

“A people trader.”

“Exactly.”

“Not just workmen, people of use. Engineers, mechanics, vets, doctors.”

Moriarty beamed at him like a proud father. “Well done.”

“You sold them on. That’s how you made an agreement with the river trolls, you sold them someone in exchange for safe passage.”

Once again he put to the back of his mind the nagging doubt about whether John would have been sold on or not. He had to be here, he had to.

“In a world of disorder,” Moriarty shouted, flinging his arms wide. “I bring light.”

Just what he needed, a psychopathic ex-master criminal with a god complex.

Moriarty dropped his arms and tipped his head to one side speculatively. “I wonder what I’ll get for you? I’m sure your big brother would pay big to get you back safe and sound.”

“He doesn’t like me that much.”

“Aww,” Moriarty pouted. “Brothers can be mean, can’t they? But trust me, he’ll pay. And really that’s all you’re good for right now. You’ve just gotten _so_ boring. I’m going to keep your pretty little doctor. I like him,” Moriarty confided. “He’s so… accommodating.”

He clenched his fists to stop from making any rash moves.

“But you? You can go back where you came from. You’re just not worth my time anymore.”

“Then I wonder why you’ve spent so long talking to me when there are so many other things to concern you.”

Moriarty scoffed. “A diversion when there’s nothing better to do of an evening.”

“Always nice to be a distraction.”

The lights went out.

“But I think,” he said as the emergency lights – no doubt a hangover from the health and safety requirements for a working palace and tourist attraction rather than anything Moriarty installed - flickered on one by one casting an eerie glow that barely lit the room compared to the grand chandelier lighting there had been before. It was still plenty of light to see and enjoy the look of surprise on Moriarty’s face. “You’ve got bigger problems now.”


	16. Chapter 16

John’s first thought was, _What the?_

His second, which came as the emergency lighting started to click on, was to wonder how could he use it to his advantage.

His third was, _Dan!_

Running into the PP room he was instantly met with Dan’s ragged breathing and Lucy flapping, asking what she should do. Lucy’s panic seemed to be making it worse as the man’s rapid unsteady breathing couldn’t possibly be taking in enough oxygen. 

John dashed back into main ward to fetch a bag valve mask and to tell Molly he was dealing with an emergency and could she deal with everyone else. He didn’t wait for her response before hurrying back into the PP room, knocking Dan’s ventilation mask away and replacing it with the bag valve mask. He pumped it steadily while at the same time informing Dan in his best doctor voice that he needed to calm down. Steadily both Dan and Lucy ceased in their panicking and both of their breathing steadied out.

“What the hell is going on?” Lucy demanded.

“Some madman broke in and caused a lot of chaos by the sounds of it,” John said.

“Broke in? Most people are trying to break out, who would break in?”

“How about the same person who would walk straight into a gang leader’s base then break out with a pregnant teenager in tow?”

Lucy looked shocked but a smile twitched at the corner of her mouth. “No!”

“It could be. Certainly sounds a lot like him and who else could cause this sort of trouble single handedly? Either way,” he swallowed, “remember how I said you were perfectly safe and I wouldn’t try to take advantage of the situation?” Still pumping steadily he looked her straight in the eye. “I’m afraid I lied, but only about one of those.”

 

~

 

There was the most delicious pause until finally Moran voiced what everyone else was thinking.

“Why isn’t the backup generator coming on-” 

He had hardly finished speaking before he pulled out his radio and started asking the same question down the line. There was no answer. Sherlock kept his face utterly calm as the Colonel turned to him and demanded to know what he had done. Then demanded it again but louder when Sherlock merely raised an eyebrow.

“Go sort it out,” Moriarty said snappishly just as it was looking like Moran was going to get violent if the silence continued.

Moran instantly withdrew with a curt nod, taking four of the guards with him.

“Well trained pit bull you have there,” Sherlock said, mildly.

“You have your pets, I have mine. What did you do?”

He didn’t flinch as the last sentence was shouted in his face.

“I did nothing.”

Moriarty sighed and rolled his eyes. “No, of course not. You came in here, did your little running around and let those idiots call in all the backup they could leaving other areas more open for your brother to move in. Not very subtle.”

“Worked.”

Moriarty laughed. “I think you’ll find,” he said, taking something from his pocket, “it slightly more difficult than you seem to think.”

It was a long black box with a small red button on top. Moriarty smirked gleefully before pressing down.

 

~

 

“If you go, he dies!”

“Not if you keep pumping. Look, I don’t want anyone in this room or that one to get hurt. Guard or slave, you’re all my patients, but I need to get out of here and help. Please. I could just knock you down, steal your gun and blow the lock off-“

“That never works.”

“It does if you do it right. I was in Afghanistan, that’s how we got into bloody houses. I don’t want to do that, not least because it would cause one hell of a racket, but also because then you would be hurt and there would be no one to look after Dan. Please, help me get out of here, quietly. You just need to go in there and get close enough to the black guy in the sling to pickpocket his keys.”

She gritted her teeth, looking towards the door to the main ward, obviously tempted.

“Yeah, But why should I? You haven’t exactly given me a reason apart from that you’ll attack me if I don’t.”

How about that he knew she quite liked him and she didn’t want Dan to die – especially since she shot him in the first place. This was not the most convenient moment for her to get hard. Needing a reason, any reason, he started to invent wildly.

“If you get me out the first thing I’m going to do is kill Moriarty. The Enclave will take over where he left and that leaves Rex back in London without anyone supporting him. How long do you think he’s going to last? Who do you think will take his place, because if you help me, it could be you.”

“Me?”

“In charge of the biggest gang in London but with the Enclave behind you. You might as well get yourself a big hunking chain and call yourself Lord Mayor. The most powerful woman in London. You. And all you’ve got to do is get me those keys, hand me your gun, then keep pumping Dan’s air.”

She fixed him with an examining gaze. “And you’ll go kill Moriarty?”

“If it’s the last thing I do.”

 

~

 

Nothing happened. 

Sherlock got to his feet and delicately brushed himself down. No one stopped him.

“Naturally the plan was to block all transmissions including any that might cause a lockdown or in that case an explosion. You rigged the farm I take it? Always good to see that our people have been doing their jobs properly.”

There was the sound of heavy gunfire in the distance getting closer.

“Ah, that will be the men at the gates.”

Shouts and screams.

“Oh and they seem to have let your collection free.”

Moriarty waved at his guards until all but two of them ran out of the room, supposedly to join the fight but by the looks of them to just keep running. Sherlock watched as the two remaining men stood by the door, shifting between their feet and looking ready to wet themselves. He turned back to Moriarty in time to see a gun forced into his face, the safety very definitely off.

“Careful now, Sherlock, you’re looking rather smug.”

“You’re not getting out of this alive,” he said, plainly.

Moriarty smirked. “I always get out. Nothing ever gets to me.”

“I did.”

Moriarty laughed then, faster than Sherlock could blink, grabbed his shirt and pulled him closer until they were chest to chest, the gun pressed up against his neck.

“You’re nothing,” Moriarty hissed in his ear. “Do you not get that yet? You were fun once, but you stopped being important when the world ended. Now you’re just dirt.”

“While you’re the king?” he said to keep Moriarty’s attention on him rather than the creak followed by the two oofs he had just heard in the corner.

“ _Yes_.”

“Do you really think a pretty crown is going to protect you when hundreds of angry slaves burst through that door? You’re just the scum that floats to the top of the pond.”

Moriarty laughed. “Then what would you call your brother?” The gun rose, scraping along his skin until it was pressed into his temple. “You talk big but you’re just ordinary, not worth my time. You don’t interest me anymore. You’re worthless. Even your pet Johnny boy-” 

The gun swung rapidly away from his head, swooping until it, and Moriarty’s attention, was pointed at a spot behind him and the gun fired once. A deafening echo in the empty room was followed immediately by a scream of pain. He turned as much as Moriarty would let him, unable to keep the horror from his face as John lay on the floor, gun sliding a few feet away from him, clutching at his thigh which was quickly staining red with blood.

“-has more going for him than you do.”

He turned back to Moriarty, fighting to control his features.

“Oops,” the other man said with a grin as he moved the gun back to where it had been.

Sherlock shoved before it could get that close and the gun went off as Moriarty hit the floor, no doubt denting some seventeenth century woodwork as it went. Sherlock didn’t care as he pounced, fighting with the other man to get hold of the weapon. He was going to make him _pay_ for hurting John.

Moriarty was a dirty fighter. Sherlock expected little else, but even he was unprepared for the vicious overuse of elbows and knees and even nails scratched across his face. Sherlock responded by pushing at Moriarty’s windpipe with his thumbs until the other man went red then slamming down on his hands with his elbow until the fingers clutched around the gun loosened. The kick to his solar plexus that took all the wind out of him and the second knock to the back of his knees that threw him to the floor and set the gun skidding away was entirely unexpected.

In a heartbeat Moriarty was straddled above him, teeth bared like an animal, blood dripping from a cut on his forehead and an insane look in his eyes. Sharp fingers closed around Sherlock’s throat, choking him. He scrambled for a hold on Moriarty, scratching uselessly at his attacker’s arms as the pain in his neck and lungs screamed. Spots exploded in front of his eyes and he felt like he was going to burst from the pain. It was too hard to lift his arms, too difficult to think, not enough-

With his ears ringing he could barely hear the bang of the gunshot but he noticed when a soft patter of red rain fell on his face and the hands on his neck loosened so, blessed relief, he could breathe again. He immediately pushed Moriarty off him and watched as the man slumped bonelessly onto the wooden floor, a perfect hole in the side of his head.

John.

He turned towards the doors and saw John, pale except where he was painted in his own blood, lying prostrate against the floor, the weapon that had got away from him hanging limping from his hands. There was a firm look on the doctor’s face as if faced with a job well done.

“John,” it came out hoarse and breathless as he rushed to the other man’s side and rolled him onto his back.

Had to treat the bullet wound, first aid, what did you do? John was pressing down on it with his empty hand; pressure.

He ripped off his shirt, wadded up the main body and pressed it over the wound in John’s thigh then tied it in place with the sleeves. Then he took both of John’s hands and placed them over the top of the makeshift bandage so as to keep it in place.

Keep the wound elevated. He hitched up John’s leg then froze as John hissed in pain. Any elevation was good though, wasn’t it? Keep him from bleeding out. He placed the leg over his lap.

Call for help. He had to find someone, get in contact with the Enclave, get them to send another doctor out so John could get proper treatment. Except that the SWAT team was a bit busy at the moment with the gunfire still pounding outside and all communications were down. He couldn’t get through to anyone. He needed a doctor. He needed John!

“John.” He leaned over, placing a hand on the side of John’s head to get the other man to focus on him. John’s beautiful blue eyes, now glazed with pain, fixated on him. “I need you to help me help you. Tell me what to do.”

John swallowed. “You need to-”

“Yes?”

Excellent, they could do this, they could work together to save John. Teamwork, just as it always was.

“You need to get down to the kitchens.”

Water, did they need hot water? To clean the wound. Or maybe a knife, did he need to take the bullet out?

“They’ve got my sister.” John sounded far away. “They had her and I came to get her. She’s in the kitchens. Please. Please get her out.”

What? No!

“John-“

“Please take her with you.”

Idiot man. “I’m not leaving you,” he said in a tone which brokered no argument.

John shook his head, apparently he was the exception to Sherlock’s tones.

“It’s my leg,” he said, as if it wasn’t so obvious that it was bleeding into his shirt. “No one survives leg wounds. If I can’t walk I can’t work. They won’t let me.”

Sherlock hoped the SWAT team killed them all.

Inspiration.

“John, look at me.” The dark blue eyes focused again. “Where did they have you? You must have had some kind of work station or medical room. Where was it?”

“Upstairs,” John said. “But there are guards-“

“Doesn’t matter.” He slipped out from underneath John’s leg and instead gathered the other man’s body towards him before throwing him over his shoulder. “Come on, let’s fix you.”

 

~

 

Everything after Sherlock picked him up was a bit vague. The corridors were so chaotic it didn’t help, with soldiers, guards and those caught in between running riot. He tried to direct Sherlock down to the kitchen but the other man was absolutely determined to get the directions for the hospital out of him he couldn’t help but comply. He didn’t have much choice, slung over Sherlock’s shoulder like that.

Everything at that point was a bit of a blur with later parts filled with alarming gaps. He couldn’t remember whether, once they reached the hospital, there was a confrontation with the guards although logically there must have been something. Although he did recall quite clearly Molly actually attacking Sherlock and screaming something about abandonment. Maybe the guards didn’t do anything after all because they were so stunned by Molly’s attack. He wasn’t sure.

He remembered asking after Lucy, Dan and several of the other patients and being told that everyone was fine and he wasn’t to worry about them, which had annoyed him. He was still their doctor, wasn’t he? What else was he supposed to do if not be concerned for his patients’ welfare? Be concerned for his own? It hurt so much he didn’t want to think about it.

After that his memories got a bit warm and fuzzy so he supposed that was when he was given painkillers. He had vague recollections of asking Molly to give him a stump like a pirate if they had to take his leg because that way he could keep working and they wouldn’t have to make him walk the plank. As long as he didn’t fall over. He wasn’t sure what a pirate was supposed to do if they fell over. Although they usually only had a peg leg if it was below the knee so maybe that explained it.

He may or may not have told Sherlock that he would go back with him as long as he agreed to look after Harry. He wasn’t absolutely certain he didn’t tell Sherlock that he didn’t mind any of it because Sherlock was pretty and a good shag. He really hoped the comments about birds nesting in Sherlock’s hair hadn’t actually managed to escape out of his head. However he was almost certain he remembered Sherlock asking what he had been given, so that didn’t bode well.

There was darkness after that until everything was clear as a bell when he woke up in the secure whiteness of the Enclave’s Blue Zone Infirmary. He closed his eyes against the bright lights then kept them closed as, with a moan, all the memories hit him. Damn it. But Sherlock’s hair had looked so fluffy he hadn’t been able to help the comparison- Never mind. 

He opened his eyes and had a better look around. He was in a bed in the corner of the Infirmary he knew so well, with white walls bracketing him on two sides and a blue curtain cutting off the other two sides.

Sherlock was sat by the curtain, watching. He looked ready to spring forward at any point, as if he was on a permanent knife edge. John found he wanted to reach out to him. It was ridiculous how much affection he still had for this man. That he still thought of Sherlock as his friend despite everything. If he was his own doctor he would be seriously worried about his own mental health.

That thought brought him back to his own physical health and he looked down at the leg that had been shot. It was still there at least, a dull ache which was a good sign for nerve damage or rather lack of.

He tried to ask Sherlock about the prognosis but the first word croaked in his throat. Sherlock fetched him some water which he tried to take, but found his hand was shaking too much and he spilled a little on the bed sheets. In the end he allowed Sherlock to hold it while he sipped, figuring that he could put up with the indignity of it if it would make him feel better quicker. 

After he had finished he didn’t have to speak before Sherlock was explaining how Molly had saved his life and what Mr Wearing’s diagnosis was. He had lost a lot of blood of course, but they had repaired the nerve damage without too much difficulty and his prognosis was good. He would have a limp for a while, a real one, but no lasting pain and with physical therapy it was entirely likely he would make a full recovery. Meanwhile, he was on bed rest until further notice and any attempt to get up and try to help out in the Infirmary would be met with serious repercussions.

“Wearing means it as well,” Sherlock said. “That medical student of yours took far too much pleasure in having me strapped to the bed to force me to recover. I think she got a taste for it.”

“Glad to hear she’s standing up to you,” he said. “You wheedle your way past her far too often, she needs to learn not to be scared of you.”

“You must have been a good influence on her,” Sherlock said.

Sherlock fixed him with an intense gaze and he could feel the approaching conversation like an oncoming train.

“Where’s Harry?” he asked, both because he needed to know and as a neat sidestep.

“She’s here. She and Molly insisted on coming along. They’re getting some sleep. They wouldn’t rest until you came out of surgery. They’ll visit, I’m sure.” Sherlock sighed and leaned back in the chair. By the looks of things he hadn’t stopped either. “Dan and Lucy are here too. Dan’s back on a mechanical ventilator and Lucy is asleep in one of the other beds. She wouldn’t leave his side but she expressed concern for you as well. There are various other patients of yours but I’m sure I’ll get in trouble if I go into their details too carefully. Oh, and Colonel Moran is in the cells if you’re interested in seeing him.”

“Not really.” He never wanted to see Seb again.

The colonel was far too easy a segue way into why he left so he changed the subject. “What’s going to happen about Windsor?”

Sherlock hmphed. “Mycroft is apparently still deciding. Most of the collection ran away along with the guards but some stayed. They didn’t have anywhere else to go and I think they were curious to find out what will happen. Mycroft will probably take in the harvest, since it’s there, but,” Sherlock hesitated, obviously unwilling to go on with the sentence. “I honestly don’t know whether he’ll keep the place or not. He seems to have developed the ability to surprise me just lately.”

He couldn’t help the smile. “That must really bug you.”

“He surprised me by offering me a SWAT team once I had managed to deduce where you were being kept,” Sherlock said.

Offered? Not Sherlock throwing a hissy fit until he received one? He couldn’t believe it. Seb really had been lying about everything, hadn’t he? 

“I’ll have to thank him,” he said, feeling small.

While Sherlock didn’t actually move the look of wanting to flee somehow became more immediate.

“It wouldn’t have been necessary if you had told me,” Sherlock said, his fingers white where they were digging into his legs.

“I’m not sure even you could have taken the place single handed,” he said, trying to make light of it. “Especially when you were hurt.”

“You could have said something instead of just leaving.”

“I didn’t know it was a trap.”

“Of course you did,” Sherlock exploded out of the chair then started pacing at the end of the bed. “You just didn’t know ‘Seb’,” a great deal of disgust was placed on the name which John could sympathise with completely, “was in on it.”

John sat in silence as Sherlock paced frustratedly in the small space feeling like a spectator at a tennis match. Suddenly the other man stopped abruptly, twisting his hands in his hair.

“John, do you want to leave?”

“Not right now,” he responded automatically thinking about how little the thought of walking appealed to him just at that moment.

Sherlock let out a frustrated cry and spun to look at him before turning away from his gaze once again.

“You would rather risk throwing your lot in with collectors than suffer what I was doing to you.” Sherlock gripped the end of the bed, hanging his head. “I-“

John watched, open mouthed. He had never seen Sherlock lost for words before.

“I underestimated… I didn’t realise… I was… I’m sorry. I made assumptions about us that turned out to be… flawed.” Sherlock shook his head, his voice low and sad. “It was never my intention to force you. I genuinely believed we were-“

“In love?”

Sherlock’s head snapped up. “In a consensual relationship.”

They stared at each other a moment, the air charged. John couldn’t help thinking that if Sherlock kissed him right now he wouldn’t do anything to resist.

Which would be bad.

“You said you loved me,” Sherlock said, his voice barely audible.

“I do.”

Sherlock’s eyes bore into his and he was suddenly acutely aware that the state of his leg meant there was no way of getting away.

“Do you….”

Oh yes, brilliant question Watson, why not open the full can of worms and just throw it all over the floor.

“Yes.”

Dammit, what was he supposed to do with that?

“Sherlock-“

He had rather hoped the other man would interrupt him at that point or try to speak over him but for once Sherlock was silent leaving him fumbling for some way of actually finishing that sentence.

“I can’t… god, this is insane.” He dropped his head into his hands. This was like therapy again, hateful. “I don’t _know_ how I feel. I can’t…” he looked up and shook his head. “I can’t, Sherlock. I need to,” Breathe, he couldn’t breathe. “Please, Sherlock. Just go. Let me figure this out alone.”

Sherlock nodded. His hand twitched as if he wanted to reach out but he seemed to resist and turned back towards the curtain. Then he hesitated.

“If I had asked,” Sherlock said, slowly, as if deliberating something, “instead of just climbing into your bed that night. Would you have said yes?”

He had wondered that himself and for the first time he knew what his answer was.

“No,” he said. “Not then.”

More time and without Seb whispering poison, maybe. Another time when they met as equals, maybe. But as it had been. No.

Sherlock nodded and without a word, left. The curtain swayed for a moment then settled and it was as if the other man had never been there.


	17. Epilogue

Five months later

It had been a complete waste of his time. There had been rumours of someone in Oxford who claimed to have actually survived the Event but with minimal burns, supposedly by being in a tunnel where the natural light was reflected, not direct. Sherlock had been sent to examine the woman’s burns and extract her story.

It was nonsense, of course, and a complete fabrication. Although it raised interesting questions that had him dwelling on the possibilities of the effect of reflection on the Event and the potential for someone to have been able to witness the Event unharmed if they were out of range of the light but able to view someone exposed to natural light in lieu of electrical lights. He was sat in the jeep, being driven back to London, thinking about whether there would be any record of any survivors in tunnels especially Dartford, when the snow started to fall.

Well that derailed those plans then.

The winter, along with the cold and starvation it had brought with it, had made London more treacherous to cross than ever. It wasn’t unknown for their convoys to be attacked by desperate survivors. They certainly couldn’t afford to be stopped by heavy snow. It was decided that since they were much closer to Windsor than they were to London they should stop over there. 

The castle had changed a great deal since it had come under new management, although not that anyone could see that from the outside. Fear of what it had once been was still their greatest defence. Although if they wanted to keep that up then they should probably stop the children from having a snowball fight just outside the gatehouse. That was unlikely ever to happen, Sherlock noted, when he spotted that at least two of the combatants were soldiers in full uniform.

Their wristbands were checked at the gate which at least saved the bother of contacting Mycroft to say where they were going. Most of the glitches in the system had been smoothed out and there was continuous communication between the castle and the main Enclave. When the power wasn’t down.

To be fair they were assured by the site manager – Mycroft’s carefully chosen lieutenant – that the generators were fixed and coping much better with the increase of demands that had been pressed on them lately. But the scorched metal bins scattered throughout the main building showed evidence of the residents’ recent need to make their own heating rather than rely on the electric system.

The guest bedrooms were far and above anything the Enclave could offer. That, the fresh air and the open land that twinkled quite beautifully under the crisp snow made it easy to see why so many had chosen to brave the glitches and make this their home. Including the chief medical officer, Doctor John Watson.

He caught his first glance of John in the dining room – the old state dining room in all its glory where royalty and important dignitaries had once dined on the finest of dishes, now filled with soldiers, scientists, farm workers and their families dining on beef stew. Rather nice beef stew, in all honesty, but hardly the full royal experience.

John didn’t appear to notice him as he came in with a group of friends that included Harry and doctor-in-training Alice Baker, who had been very wisely separated from Helen Webber before the two killed each other. As the group sat down further up the table they all seemed too caught up laughing at some private joke that it was no wonder he went unnoticed.

John looked good. Much better than last time he had seen him, although given that had been shortly after the doctor had been imprisoned and shot that was really to be expected. Still, even taking that into account, John looked happier, healthier, better rested and more relaxed than he had ever seen him. The country air must have agreed with him. He didn’t want to spoil the effect with his presence so he finished his meal as quickly as possible and went back to his room.

He hoped to leave early the next morning but was horrified to discover when he woke up the next day a blizzard going on outside. He tried to persuade his escort to have a go at it but was told quite firmly that while the jeep would be able to make it across settled snow there was no chance in hell they were going out when visibility was so low and snow was falling that quickly.

So it was with great reluctance he found himself in one of the rec rooms, staring out the window as John Watson entered. This time, however, the doctor headed straight for him.

“Here,” John said.

He took the mug which was offered automatically but examined it warily as John dropped into a nearby armchair. It was brown and murky.

“Gertie has been experimenting with making chocolate,” John said conversationally. “This lot wouldn’t solidify properly but add a shot of whisky and it will warm your cockles like nobody’s business.”

“Do I need to warm my cockles?” he asked.

“Sherlock,” said John, as if he was giving a fatal diagnosis, “if anyone needs their cockles warming, it’s you. Drink up.” 

As if to demonstrate he took a sip out of his mug. Sherlock followed suit and my that had a bit of a kick to it. Nice though. He took another sip because the intoxicating effects of alcohol could only make this conversation better.

John held his own mug between his hands as if to warm them and asked,

“So what are you doing in my part of the country?”

The tone was friendly enough, almost like the old days, but the possessive didn’t bode well.

He explained about the con artist in Oxford and was surprised when John made encouraging noises and asked questions about his theory relating to the tunnel. Soon he was explaining about his current avenues of research and describing his theories on reflection by using a dart board and a snooker ball. John talked and laughed and called him brilliant in all the right places. The whole morning seemed to fly by with their discussions. 

Over lunch, John asked for updates on Lestrade, Helen Webber and Wearing and their football team. In exchange the doctor offered stories about day to day life at Windsor including the time he had walked in on three burly lifetime soldiers cooing excitedly about the dainty china in Queen Anne’s dollhouse before noticing him, coughing embarrassingly and sidling away.

After their meal John had to do rounds and Sherlock was about to offer to come with him when he was approached by the head of his escort. The weather had cleared up and the forecast looked good so they could leave now if he was ready. He looked back towards John who was smiling fondly.

“I guess I’ll see you next time you’re in the area.”

His heart leapt at the thought that John was willing to, even wanted to, see him again.

“Would that be okay?” he checked.

“Yeah. I,” John looked embarrassed. “I missed you actually. I wondered if I would and I did. I’d like us to be friends. I missed you as a friend.”

A friend. His heart sank until it felt like it was at the bottom of his chest. But still, some John was better than no John.

“That would be good.”

“Email me.”

“I will.”

John nodded then turned to walk away. He hesitated and a second later he was in Sherlock’s personal space planting a soft kiss on his cheek.

“For now,” John said, before hurrying away.

Sherlock’s hand touched the spot on his cheek where John had kissed him as if drawn by gravity. There were flutterings in his stomach and his heart was beating out a drum roll.

“Sir?”

Damn that man and his jeep that was taking him away from John again. Except he needed to get away from John before he mucked it up again. Before John changed his mind. He nodded and let himself be led away, already trying to think of something to put in his first email.

Friends. They could be friends for a while. They had all the time in the world after all. Friends would do. For now.

 

THE END

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